


Return to Me

by peasantswhy



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Reunions, War, trauma/recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-19 19:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 37,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13130250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasantswhy/pseuds/peasantswhy
Summary: Sometimes, however—when he nestles down for the night and stars splay out like a banner overhead—he allows himself to remember. Gondolin. He remembers a different sky, remembers the smell of flowers drifting through his open window. Crushed herbs from his garden between his fingers, their oil smearing into the delicate skin over his pulse. The weight of another cleaving tight against him. Coal-black hair carding through his hands.Glorfindel returns to Middle Earth.





	1. Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).



> Merry Christmas!!

The coastline doesn’t look right.

Glorfindel knows it has been thousands of years since his death, but have things really changed this much? Perhaps it is that he only saw the coast when he was very young, and then only briefly.

He adjusts the sails of his little sloop, feeling a slight bump as the great, unseen hand of Ulmo nudges him along. The sea breeze whips back his hair as he slipped into the harbor, unremarked by the other, larger ships dotting the bay. It’s just past mid-day, and the sun strikes diamond-bright on the water. Overhead gulls wheel and cry over the great pillars and arches jutting out of the water, carved in a strange new style that Glorfindel can’t place. The tide is coming in, and cormorants and pelicans stake out their look-out spots on the tops of pylons and anchored ships. Stale salt and seaweed and the funk of frying fish fills the air and, after weeks with only the clean ocean smell to keep him company, Glorfindel takes in the smell of _civilization,_ of _people,_ and sighs. Ulmo nudges his boat away from the main dock, bustling with sailors and richly clothed merchants, towards a small, quiet inlet. Glorfindel decides to let Ulmo do the rest of the work and lets down the sail—and if anyone notices a little boat moving along without the help of the wind they don’t say anything.

He doesn’t know who awaits him on shore. All he knows is the soft, gentle voice of Lord Irmo whispering to him in the silence and solitude of Lórien. _Sauron lives—you must tell them that Sauron lives. All else will be revealed, but you must bear the message._

Perhaps that is why he lingered so long in the Halls—healing, yes, but also preparing. Making ready for another war. Glorfindel lifts the heavy mass of his hair into a high tail, tying it up with a long blue ribbon. A gift from Lady Vairë. He is ready for whatever lies ahead, but even still. To his memory it seems only a few weeks passed since the Fall of Gondolin, even though the sharp sting of his death has passed away into calm peace. The memory of his friends, however— that strikes hot and sharp in his chest like a hammer upon an anvil. He does not know what happened to them, as that was a mystery not even Lord Námo would reveal to him. Egalmoth and Ecthelion, his brothers-in-arms, all the brave, beautiful elves of his household— and a lithe, green-eyed shadow, oh, and how he _aches—_

He finishes off the high tail with a quick, vicious twist. No time for that now. Perhaps, when everything is over _(and how long would that be? How long?)_ he would be able to—to find out what happened. To follow where his heart led instead of where the Valar wished. But not now. Not now.

Círdan is waiting for him when his little boat nudges up against the dock, sitting on the edge with his bare feet dangling over the water. Glorfindel remembers Círdan as a good and kindly Lord, even if he did not know him long or well before his death.

“Hail, Laurefindil,” Círdan calls, his smile breaking through the great grey beard framing his face. “The birds told me you were coming.” He stands and reaches out to grasp Glorfindel’s forearm, hauling him up onto the dock.

“Did the birds tell you of my errand as well?” Glorfindel replies, something inside himself easing at seeing a familiar face. Perhaps solitude is necessary for healing for a little while, but he had been lonely.

“No,” Círdan returns. “But I can guess. The birds tell me much more than elves do, though perhaps it is rare that their concerns and the concerns of the Valar align so. Come,” he stoops to tie the sloop to the dock with a length of rope around a metal cleat. “As much as you must need to rest, I’m afraid I must send you on your way immediately. I apologize, but if my hunch is correct, and my hunches normally are, then your message needs swifter wings than the birds themselves.”

Glorfindel stands straight, falling once more into his soldier’s skin. “As you wish, my Lord. Where will you send me?”

“To Imladris,” Círdan claps a hand on his shoulder and turns him away to the shore. “I think Lord Elrond should hear of this first.”

Glorfindel hesitates. “I know not of what you speak, my Lord. I— I know nothing of what happened after my death, save that Morgoth must have been overthrown and that his lapdog Sauron yet lives. I do not even know where I am, for I have not seen shores like these in all of Falas. Are we further south than I originally supposed?”

Círdan pauses and looks at him, incredulous. “Well I suppose it’s not in the nature of the Valar to do us any favors beyond the necessities, now, is it? By the gods, they told you nothing?”

Glorfindel shakes his head. “I do not even know how long it has been, such is the nature of time in Mandos.”

Círdan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my friend, I’m afraid this journey is going to be very hard for you. It's been, gods, _thousands_ of years. You are not _south_ of Falas, but _west._ The mountains you saw upon your entrance into the bay are not the Ered Lomín, but the _Ered Luin._ The whole continent of Beleriand _sank_ in the great war. Only the high peak of the Himring remains, an island north of here.”

Glorfindel staggers, pressing a hand to his chest. _Ered Luin? This close to the sea? Beleriand? Where—Oh, by all the gods, what happened?_

Círdan places a gentle hand on his back, steadying him. “I am hesitant to tell you more, lest I overwhelm you. Here, I have a few refreshments for you while you regain your land-legs. Please, rest awhile.” And he turns Glorfindel away to the edge of the dock, where indeed, nestled under a small pavilion, there is a small table set out with platters of fruit and bread. Glorfindel slumps down heavy in a chair, his thoughts like a whirlwind in his head. Not just Gondolin, but all of Beleriand as well? Who then, who still rested in the Halls? Who had perished? What had they lost in this _devastation?_

Círdan leaves him to duck away into what must be his house, a simple cottage raised up on stilts over the beach. When he returns it is with a few elves who promptly scurry away to take care of Glorfindel’s things, along with five large books in his arms. He places them on the table, noting with disapproval the untouched food.

“Come now, my Lord, you must ready yourself for your journey. You leave before nightfall.” He presses an apple into Glorfindel’s palm.

This, the soldier’s necessity of eating, this he understands. He takes a reluctant bite around the lump in his throat.

“Here is a complete history of the time you have missed. I’ll send it with you to read at your leisure, since to tell you all at once would surely weigh your soul down too much to travel.” He pushes the stack over to Glorfindel. “It is enough to tell you, I think, that we have fought long and hard and have now come to a time of relative peace, though I anticipate your message will soon change that.” Círdan sits down next to him, taking a pear from the platter and munching it thoughtfully. “The Kingdom of the Ñoldor is now called Lindon, and was ruled up until relatively recently by Gil-galad, whom you will remember as Orodeth’s son. He died in our last great conflict with Sauron, and no one has stepped up to take the crown of High King. His standard bearer and obvious successor, Elrond, has refused the crown and now resides in Imladris, a stronghold east of here at the foot of the Misty Mountains.” He gives Glorfindel a bit of a look. “You will find he’s stubborn like that. You would not have met Elrond, as he was born after your death, but you would have met his father, Eärendil.”

Glorfindel blinks, shocked. _Eärendil? That sweet little boy had a son?_

“Despite his… quirks,” Círdan continues, unabated. “He is a very wise Lord, perhaps the wisest. I believe you will do better in his charge than in mine, and so it is with my apologies that I send you immediately to him. Your elven tirelessness will be sorely tested, I’m afraid.”

Glorfindel nods. “As you wish, my Lord.” The order is comforting, somehow. He can put away his inner turmoil to face the task at hand, distract himself with the surety of duty.

 

He is left with a few more hours to finish his food and to catch a quick nap curled up on Círdan’s own bed. Sleep comes slowly to him, troubled as he is, and it seems only moments after he finally falls asleep that Círdan’s underlings come to fetch him. He blinks, bleary, and allows them to lead him out into the yard and to a dappled grey stallion, who perks up his ears at his approach.

Círdan stands next to the stallion, patting his neck. “This is Onótimo. His fleet hooves will carry you where you wish, and often has he trod from here to Imladris in his short years.”

Glorfindel walks up to Onótimo to introduce himself, holding out his hands for that velvet pink nose to sniff. Seemingly satisfied, Onótimo nods his head and presses his nose to the center of Glorfindel’s chest, snuffling.

“I’ve packed your books with you, along with a few other supplies, a letter of introduction, and a map, should Onótimo grow forgetful.” Círdan holds Onótimo steady as Glorfindel mounts, his face lined with concern. “I wish you well, friend. May we meet again with better tidings.”

Glorfindel nods. “Thank you, for your hospitality and for the books.”

Círdan nods back. “You’re welcome. Now, off with you!” And with a friendly swat Círdan sends Onótimo off at a rolling canter.

Glorfindel looks back to wave, Círdan and his cottage already growing small in the distance. Onótimo kicks up his heels and soon enough the darkening forest swallows them whole.

 

Even with Onótimo, he gets lost a few times on the journey. He feels a little bad about this, knowing Círdan’s haste, but he doesn’t like looking at the map. The books remain firmly tucked away in the bottom of his pack. This is probably a mistake, but he can’t bring himself to open them and read about his friends’ deaths like they’re footnotes.

He knows he’s burying his sadness. He knows that eventually it will spring forth, full-grown, and when that happens it will overwhelm him wholly. He knows this and he ignores that along with everything else he’s ignoring.

Still, it is nice to be out in the open again— Lord Irmo had understood more than most the sorrow his heart still carried and kept him sequestered away in Lórien to continue healing even after he had been reincarnated. The cloistering was comforting, but only for so long. The deep-breathing feeling of trees around him feels better than he thought it would.

 _Such a tender soul,_ Glorfindel remembers the great brightness that is Lord Irmo saying. _So like my sister, in many ways. Rest now, beautiful one, the world may yet have need of you soon._

And now the world did have need of him, through in truth, he knew not why. Egalmoth was ever more decisive, Ecthelion more courageous. Perhaps Turgon could have returned to lead, or Tuor, or any of the others. But here he is, a little flower pushing gamely up through the dirt to unfurl. Who could know the mind of the gods?

A few weeks pass in this manner, Onótimo cantering and trotting his way through unfamiliar countryside with a bewildered Glorfindel on his back. Glorfindel holds tight to these in-between moments, letting himself come to terms with his new situation slowly. He’s in a new body, though only slightly new—some old scars remain. He has a new enemy to fight—and again! Only slightly new. Sauron always crouched in the corners of Morgoth’s designs, but now it seems that in his master’s absence he has risen to the fore.

There is a place called Lindon, and Imladris, and a person named Elrond who is apparently good and wise. Glorfindel turns these thoughts over in his head slowly, letting them take on the rhythm of Onótimo’s hooves. He knows he’ll have no such luxury to meditate once he arrives.

Sometimes, however—when he nestles down for the night and stars splay out like a banner overhead—he allows himself to remember. _Gondolin._ He remembers a different sky, remembers the smell of flowers drifting through his open window. Crushed herbs from his garden between his fingers, their oil smearing into the delicate skin over his pulse. The weight of another cleaving tight against him. Coal-black hair carding through his hands, blushing lips parting beneath his fingertips. A lovely name slipping from his mouth, _Erestor—_

And those mornings he always wakes aching, soaked in dew and shivering.


	2. Imladris

He is more weary than he expected when he arrives. And yet, when Glorfindel crests a ridge and looks down on the wonder that is Imaldris, a many-faceted jewel carved out of a waterfall, he thinks that maybe he could find peace here, whatever his message brings.

Onótimo finds his way easily down the slope and over the arching bridge into Imladris. Glorfindel notes that he had not seen any patrols surrounding the city, though his presence must have been noted. Lord Elrond must keep a tight ship indeed for Glorfindel not to notice even one scout’s presence.

A few elves come forward to greet him, patting Onótimo down as Glorfindel dismounts. One in particular, a tall, red-haired elleth, introduces herself.

“Greetings, my Lord. I am called Gilmith, steward to Lord Elrond. Have you come from the Havens?” She bows to him, her hand pressed over her heart.

Glorfindel bows in return. “I have, my Lady. I am called Glorfindel, and I am sent with an urgent message for Lord Elrond.”

Her head cocks slightly, her eyes searching. Glorfindel remains unblinking underneath her frank stare. He does not quite yet feel himself ready to speak on his past or his mission, at least not until he has spoken with Elrond first.

She seems to unwittingly agree with him and leaves off any further questioning with a simple, “This way, my Lord.”

Onótimo is taken away as Gilmith leads him further up into the heart of Imladris, past spiraling columns and creeping vines still flush with flowers.

“I apologize that we do not have a better reception for you, my Lord. We were a little surprised at your arrival and have not had time to properly prepare, though give us a few hours and we’ll be right as rain.” She turns back to catch his eye, smiling. She has an easy manner that slips through the formality, and Glorfindel thinks she has judged his character already and finds him favorable enough to banter. He appreciates it, especially contrasted with Gondolin’s often overly stiff sense of propriety. He wonders if Imladris is just like this, if all the elves are so genial. He finds himself relaxing a little more, his steps easier upon the swirled flagstones.

Now that he is in Imladris he finds the tension in his shoulders settling down a bit. He assumes that this is where he will stay for the time being, and after so many weeks on the sea and on the road it’s comforting to finally land somewhere solid. Imladris is beautiful, in an organic, free-growing sort of way—and he finds that suits him better than Gondolin’s strict, sharp beauty. His heart gives a little uptick of hope at the thought.

They travel up past what Glorfindel supposes is the central hub, back closer toward the falls. Bright eyes blink out from various open windows, but overall Imladris is rather subdued. Curious, considering that it is nearing the end of the day and he would’ve expected some bustle in preparation for dinner.

“Is it always this quiet?” He asks.

“Ah, no.” Gilmith replies. “We can be a rather raucous bunch, I’m afraid, but today is something of a solemn day.” She grimaces. “Were your message not so urgent, I would advise you to meet with Lord Elrond tomorrow, but as it stands I feel that you had better see him now. As it is, the Lord has already retired from his normal offices to his quarters, so I am taking you directly there.”

Glorfindel senses that there is something he’s missing, but doesn’t press further.

They finally make their way to a snug little apartment, decorated simply with colored glass windows and a few wind chimes dancing under long, golden willow branches.

“Here we are,” Gilmith says and knocks on the door. “Hello, my Lord?” She calls, leaning in to listen to the door.

Glorfindel stands off to the side, feeling a bit awkward.

She turns back to him and, as if seeing his discomfort, whispers conspiratorially to him. “If he kicks you out just take the path back down and ask for me. I’m sure there’s a few more sweets left over from lunch, and we’ll have you settled and at ease quick as you like.” She winks.

He smiles in return, thinking that perhaps he and Gilmith will become friends. So long has he been without them, and now it seems they are popping up like snowdrops.

There’s a grumbling sound from inside and the door opens. “Gilmith, I hope you have a good reason—oh. Who’s this?”

Whatever Glorfindel expected from Elrond it is not a disheveled, _short_ elf, blinking up at him with owl-eyes. Elrond is dressed in a worn, fraying robe that had obviously seen better days, his sable-brown hair tied up in a messy bun on top of his head. Amber eyes _(Oh, and he has Idril’s eyes)_ look him up and down, his lips pursed.

Gilmith introduces him. “This is Glorfindel. He’s been sent with an urgent message from the Havens.”

Glorfindel bows.

Elrond’s eyes narrow. “The Balrog-Slayer Glorfindel?”

Oh, so he has no subtlety either.

Glorfindel nods. “The same.” He blushes a little, unused to such scrutiny.

Elrond, seemingly full of confusing emotions, frowns. “Well, I suppose you had better come in, then. Thanks for bringing him up Gilmith, I’ll take it from here.”

Gilmith bows and makes her exit as Elrond ushers him inside. The outer door opens into a large sitting room, rugs thick on the ground and old, comfy-looking couches circling a low table in front of a lit fireplace. A cluster of wine bottles stand on the low table, two glasses and a corkscrew beside them. Elrond waves him over to the couches, mumbling to himself.

Glorfindel sits gingerly on the couch, eyeing the wine bottles. That was quite a few bottles for only two glasses. “I apologize, my Lord, for my timing. Gilmith informed me that it is a solemn day here and I realize my arrival isn’t ideal.” He regrets somewhat the few days he got lost on the way.

Elrond gives him a flat look over his shoulder. “That’s putting it lightly,” He replied. “I’m afraid I must apologize as well—you have caught me in a rather unflattering moment. Tell me, my very great and suddenly _not dead_ Lord,” he says, reaching for a glass and a pitcher of water. “What brings you here?” He brings the water over to Glorfindel, perching on the couch arm.

Glorfindel takes the water, thankful for something to occupy his hands. “I have been sent from Aman by the Valar.”

Elrond’s eyebrows rise. “How interesting. I take it that you did, in fact, die? And are now reborn?”

Glorfindel nods. “Yes. They have sent me with a message: Sauron lives.”

Elrond goes very still and his eyes close. He is silent for a long stretch, his hands rising like trembling birds to cradle his face. Glorfindel suddenly, desperately wants to reach out, to comfort him, so he lays a soft hand on Elrond’s knee. Elrond lets him, and after a moment he looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and deeply lined. “It is as I feared, then.” He says, and places a hand over Glorfindel’s. “Thank you, my Lord, for your comfort even if your words break my heart.” He laughs then, a sudden, bitter bark. “And you’ve come on a very bad day for me.”

Glorfindel tilts his head, asking while remaining silent.

“It’s the anniversary, you see.” Elrond continues. “The Third Kinslaying.”

Glorfindel starts, horrified. “There were _three?!”_ He did not mean to be that loud, but, by the Valar—

Elrond looks back to him, confused. “Did you not know?”

Glorfindel shakes his head. “I know of nothing after my death, save for what little Lord Círdan told me. He sent me with history books to read, but I have not the time, nor, in truth, the heart for them just yet.”

Elrond sighs, cursing softly under his breath. “Well, this is shaping up to be a real _clusterfuck_ of a day, isn’t it? Then you will also not know that today is also the anniversary of the last day of the assault on Gondolin.”

Glorfindel’s face crumples. “No,” he says, his voice gone soft. “I didn’t.”

Elrond pats his shoulder, rubbing gently with his thumb. Glorfindel leans into it, sighing at the upswell of emotion. “This is a fell day for all of us.” Elrond murmurs. “I wish I was in a better state to comfort you. But wait, if you didn’t know—”

Glorfindel looks up at him, seeing Elrond’s face scrunch in thought. “Didn’t know what?” He asks.

Elrond’s hand tightens on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Tell me, my Lord, did you ever know an elf by the name of Erestor?”


	3. Imladris

Gondolin, when Erestor takes the time to remember it, sits as a great heap of charcoal in his mind. Charred. Hollow. Smoldering driftwood steaming up in the rising tide. Everything, every fountain, every arch, every crystal white column, everything is rimmed with black. Even before, before the Fall, all his memories crackle at the edges.

He prefers not to remember. His younger self is not someone he likes to visit. In his stronger moments he can think that young, bright-eyed naiveté doesn’t suit him anymore and with that simple thought he can banish the sick, sea-green feeling of guilt and remorse. In other, weaker moments—like this one—he relents. The sun sets in the window of his office in Imladris, burnishing the edges red. He closes his eyes.

And the silver sickle of the moon arcs up over the doorway of the House of the Mole. He can feel his feet, once more light with the swiftness of youth, padding softly through the corridors. The breeze is heady with the perfume of roses and climbing vines. His lord is restless tonight, stalking the halls with a curtain of darkness in his wake. Only recently, miraculously, has Maeglin returned from beyond the walls—and Erestor is only thinking of how he might please his new Lord, of how he might comfort Maeglin’s aching thoughts. Erestor is still so very young, so very new to the great halls of the House of the Mole, only appointed seneschal a few bare weeks ago— and already all Erestor’s loyalty, all his gratefulness is tied up in his beautiful, troubled Lord.

 _And yet_ —

Despite his devotion, there is the pricking of a new, gloriously golden new presence in the back of his mind—a presence pacing with soft cat’s paws around his heart. His heart fills with autumn-sweet longing, open and ready for a pair of sky blue eyes to meet his.

And _oh—_ if only he had _known—_

But he didn’t. He didn’t know _anything._

He did not yet know what it meant to be tricked. He did not yet know what it meant to understand that fear can choke all other impulses in one, great hand. He did not yet know the sound of a balrog’s laugh, or the hiss of a dragon’s burning steps, or the sight of steel melting in gleaming puddles under bright, braided hair curling in flames. He did not know _betrayal._

He does now.

Erestor sighs and leans back in his chair, the familiar weight of it digging into his back. For a moment he allows himself to hang suspended between two worlds, Gondolin and Imladris, before opening his eyes and yanking himself into the present. Here is the desk before him. Here are his papers, his inkwell, all the simple things of his life arranged neatly under his hands. There are birds singing outside the window, the sky is blushing with sunset colors, and he is here and safe and alive. That has to be enough for now.

It has been thousands of years since the Fall, but the anniversary of that last fire-lit night still gnaws away at the inside of his chest. He knows he will not wholly recover from _this_ particular night for a week, at the least. Only thing now is to get through it.

So Erestor stacks the last of his paperwork, loosens his hair from its tight braid, scrapes his chair back and leaves his office behind to join Elrond, who is undoubtedly decanting seven or so bottles of very cheap wine.

It seems to Erestor that fell things must have some unspoken kinship, a bond, because the anniversary of the Fall of Gondolin and the anniversary of the Third Kinslaying fall on the same fall-crisp day. Perhaps this is tragedy’s one blessing— it gives two sorrowful elves company to weather the night.

It’s what they’ve done every year since they first found each other in Lindon. Erestor, feral and suspicious, and Elrond, sweet and kind even in his wounded heart—the two of them crossing paths in the night, red-rimmed eyes visible even in the dark. There was not much else to do but for Erestor to show him the secret ways down to the cellars and for the two of them to proceed to get very, very drunk. The next morning Elrond made him seneschal of his House and everything else just followed after, like clear air after a thunderstorm.

It’s more than he deserves, to be sure. Not a day goes by wherein he doesn’t think at least once that Elrond will dismiss him the next morning. After so many years the thoughts seem more like habit, _wash your face, eat breakfast, prepare to be dismissed, review reports…_ But Elrond is kind and understands and is very gentle with him, so Erestor keeps moving forward to the next day and the day after that.

Today, that forward momentum stutters.

Erestor makes his way through the open-air hallways of Imladris, what few elves left in the hallways scattering before him. He must look worse than usual this year. Ai, old wounds can snarl and snap, same as young ones.

Elrond’s apartments are on the far end of Imladris, nestled away near a copse of weeping willows. It gets progressively quieter the closer he gets, and Erestor can feel his hackles lower somewhat. As he rounds the final corner, however, he can hear Elrond’s voice drifting through his curtained window, tinged with sorrow and… worry?

“—but wait, if you didn’t know—” Erestor can hear the tumble of Elrond’s thoughts, can almost feel the tide of them rolling off his tongue.

“Didn’t know what?” A familiar, yet muffled voice follows Elrond’s, but Erestor can’t place it. One of Círdan’s couriers, no doubt. More trouble for him to sort through come morning.

Elrond’s next sentence lowers beyond Erestor’s hearing as he makes his way to the door.

Ordinarily he would defer to propriety, wait outside the door for Elrond to finish his business, then knock until he was admitted inside. This evening, however, he has little patience left, much less politeness.

He knocks heavy on the door and, not waiting for an answering invitation, opens it wide. “My lord I hate to interrupt but—”

There is a very blonde elf sitting in the middle of Elrond’ sitting room.

Correction: there is a very _dead_ elf sitting in the middle of Elrond’s sitting room.

For a half second his sharp tongue lies limp in his gaping mouth, the two of them staring dumbly at each other. Then, all at once—“What the _fuck_ is going on here?” Erestor snaps, turning to Elrond. “Is this— is this some sort of _sick joke_?!”

Elrond’s face is a sharp mix of regret and sorrow. “No, Erestor,” he says, his voice serious and soft. “Glorfindel has been sent from Aman with an urgent message from the Valar. I am sorry he arrived now, of all times.”

Glorfindel, the tall, dead ( _not dead_ ) elf with cascading golden hair, with sky-blue eyes and a kind smile—Erestor knows that smile even if Glorfindel isn’t smiling now— _Glorfindel_ real and true in front of him— Glorfindel finally finds his legs and bolts up. “ _Erestor?_ You—how?” he says, hushed. Erestor can see the trembling in his movements, can see him searching for something to say but coming up short. His hand reaches out, and when he meets Erestor’s eyes his gaze is filled with those thousand unsaid things—things if spoken out loud the sound of them would shatter Erestor, would leave him in pieces on the floor.

“No—” Erestor’s next words were _not you,_ but, of course, it was _only_ him, only ever _him, only_ — and Erestor tears his gaze away from that beautiful ghost to see Elrond, who is looking back at him a little helplessly, and it’s when he sees Elrond that Erestor finally crumbles. “No. No. Not you, not _now—”_

And he whirls on his heel to bolt back to his own rooms, where he locks the door firmly shut behind him.


	4. Imladris

Glorfindel jerks with the slam of the door. His heart is pounding, his breath coming fast and hard and Elrond has such a strange look on his face—something like sorrow, or horror, but perhaps like hope, as well? Glorfindel doesn’t know what to think about that, save—

_And then—_

Erestor _(Erestor!)_ was _here,_ not three seconds ago—standing there like a vision from the gods, his hair flying in wisps around him and his green eyes flashing with— with anger?

Glorfindel presses a hand to his faltering heart, caught between wonder and joy and confusion and—and _despair_ — and why didn’t Erestor come to him? Why did he look at him with such anger and sorrow? Why weren’t they in each other’s arms, why did he not laugh for joy, why did he— and now he is _gone_ , door slammed shut behind him, and when Glorfindel turns to Elrond he can see his own overwhelmed, aching look mirrored in Elrond’s eyes.

“Come now, Glorfindel,” Elrond says, placing his hands on Glorfindel’s elbows and turning him back to the couch.

Glorfindel goes easy even as he protests, “Wait—no, I have to—I need—” The edges of his vision go dazed and fuzzy as Elrond pushes him back down to the couch.

“I think you need to sit, my Lord.” Elrond is so gentle, too gentle, his hands patting and smoothing down Glorfindel’s back, his hair.

All of Glorfindel’s limbs feel like lead, like they’re melting into the couch. Then, all at once, he breaks—the rush of weariness and loneliness and confusion overwhelms him and he sags down over his knees, weeping. It’s too much, everything is too much right now—long days and night and _years,_ by the Valar it’s been _millennia,_ hasn’t it? That he’s been alone, driven and battered by his fate—and now _Erestor—_ Erestor turns from him? “W-what is g-going on?” He manages, his voice muffled by his damp sleeves.

Elrond sits beside him, sensing that Glorfindel’s need for comfort is greater than his unease at being so vulnerable with a stranger. “I am so sorry, Glorfindel,” he says, forgoing formality. “That you had to find out about this in such a way, and especially on such a day.” He brushes a hand over his eyes, shielding their red-rimmed edges for a brief moment. “Did you know him well?

Glorfindel looks up at him, desperate. Seeing only compassion, he speaks. “We knew each other… very well. I am deeply troubled and confused at—” he flails for a moment. “This. I thought we were… friends? Has so much changed?”

“Here.” Elrond hands him the glass of water, previously forgotten on the low table, and Glorfindel takes it, grateful. Elrond sighs and leans back. “I do not know what sort of elf Erestor used to be, but now he is my seneschal, and a trusted friend besides. We met in Lindon and, in our mutual sorrow, found friendship.” Here Elrond pauses, considering his words.

Glorfindel waits, speared through with his words, words about _Erestor—_

Elrond continues. “He does not like to speak of Gondolin, nor of what happened there. Because we have been friends now for so many years I can see into his heart better than most, but he is very good at keeping secrets. I have always known him as a solemn, thoughtful elf, cautious to the point of suspicion but very sharp. He is possessed, as few elves are, with deep cunning. In my experience such qualities do not come to the happy, or to those unmarred by tragedy, and my hunch was proven correct many years later when he revealed to me that he had a lover in Gondolin whom he had lost. Am I correct in assuming that lover was yourself?”

Glorfindel nods. Erestor, his _lover—_ His throat grows thick— and he knows, he _knows_ what Elrond means when he says _tragedy._

Elrond purses his lips, thoughtful. “I think, my Lord, that it may well be that the Erestor who lives here now is very different than the one you knew. You seem like a good sort of fellow, and I know that you will want to reconnect with him. I—” Elrond presses his lips into a thin white line. “I do not know if he will desire the same thing, at least at first. Either way, may I advise you to be gentle with him?”

“I want nothing else—” Glorfindel holds out his hands, helpless. “I know you have just met me, my Lord, but I am not a brute to—to force myself where I am—” and his voice falls away. _Where I am not wanted._

Elrond raises his hand. “Peace, I believe you.” His face grows soft and sad. “I do not know what road lies ahead of you, Glorfindel, and it may well be a tragic one. I do not know Erestor’s heart, nor do I know the full extent of the wounds he carries. I do not know how he will take to you after all this time. But I will be here if you have need of me, and I hope I can offer you peace and friendship.”

Glorfindel’s face crumples as Elrond’s words sink in. For him it feels like it has only been months since Erestor was— was blushing in his arms, was _his,_ and to now hear that—that time has rolled on without him. That he has been left behind. That—that Erestor might not care for him anymore. To be given such an unexpected gift, for _Erestor_ to be here when he thought not to see him for—for _thousands_ of years more, and to have that snatched away from him, maybe _forever—_ Glorfindel hides his face in his hands, shuddering.

“If you like, I can speak to him?” Elrond’s soothing voice comes to him through the darkness of his hands.

Glorfindel lifts his head and wipes his eyes on the back of his sleeve. “Perhaps that might be wise. I don’t think I’m fit for conversation right now.”

Elrond hands him a handkerchief. “Alright. I’ll speak with him later. Here, shall I take you to your rooms? No doubt Gilmith has prepared a guest room for you while more permanent quarters are arranged. We can speak more of your errand tomorrow.”

Glorfindel nods, finding that he has not much left in him right now. Sleep seems like the only thing that can comfort him now.

Elrond draws him to his feet and gently places Glorfindel’s hand on his elbow, leading him out the door. Glorfindel tucks the handkerchief into his pocket and follows.


	5. Imladris

Night falls.

Later, Elrond unlocks the door. His arms are full with wine and an oil lamp.

Erestor lies still on top of his bed. His eyes are hot and gritty, but he hasn’t cried at all.

Elrond sets the lamp on the side table and dumps the wine bottles on the bed. “Scooch over,” he says.

 _Scooch._ Elrond’s mannish accent is coming through again— a bad sign. His accent grows thick in pace with his heavy, sad thoughts. Still, Erestor obliges, shifting over to one edge of the bed while Elrond settles back on the other, kicking off his slippers and crossing his long legs in front of him.

Erestor fights with the words on his tongue for a long moment before asking, “Will he be staying?”

Elrond nods, rubbing his temples. “Círdan’s sent him to be a part of Imladris’ guard. You will, unfortunately, be working quite closely together.”

Erestor’s heart drops.

Elrond pauses. His jaw tightens. “Sauron is still alive, and gaining strength.”

Erestor closes his eyes. He hears the rest of the words Elrond’s not saying. _It seems they—he— Ereinion—died in vain._ He places a soft hand on Elrond’s arm.

Wordlessly, Elrond hands him a bottle and a corkscrew.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, and sometime around dawn Erestor collapses back into a sick, fitful sleep.


	6. Memories: Gondolin

Glorfindel remembers.

 

He remembers walking the streets of Gondolin, his green cloak whipping out behind him as his determined steps take him down the avenue.

Tensions are running high, conflict within the royal family seeping out into the general politics of the city. More and more often Glorfindel returns home after a day in court to find Ecthelion or Egalmoth (or both, on more interesting days) waiting for him in his study, a new worrying tidbit of news or tendril of rumor on their lips before he can even remove his breastplate. The three of them keep close council these days, and Egalmoth in particular is growing nearly paranoid in his worry. He fairly bristles whenever Maeglin crosses his sights. Glorfindel, for his part, begins to dread his study. He is so weary, so very weary, and even if his friends are coming over more often that they might otherwise, they leave him feeling drained as a crisp, dry husk.

Thus it is that the two of them have ordered Glorfindel to do some reconnaissance. Glorfindel is not overly happy about this—he loves his friends, he does, but sometimes they mistake his sunny countenance for inner liveliness. He is the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower and he wilts easier than they realize. As he walks down the avenue he wishes that perhaps he had been more stubborn, had refuses their entreaties more firmly. But he did not, and so his steps taken him closer and closer to the House of the Mole.

Maeglin disappeared a few months back, ostensibly to oversee some new mining endeavors on the edges of the city’s limits. He neither sent nor received any correspondence at the time, and his seneschal, an elf named Galion, let slip that Maeglin wasn’t exactly _around_ to receive or send said correspondence. Egalmoth, for once happy with Maeglin gone, nearly popped a blood vessel when he heard. But Maeglin had returned from wherever he had been, dismissed Galion, and employed a new seneschal. Curious at best, suspicious at worse.

Egalmoth and Ecthelion voted (without him, of course) that Glorfindel should be the one to visit Maeglin and scout out the situation.

In truth, it isn’t that Glorfindel _dislikes_ Maeglin. He finds him to be a sharp, if sad elf, especially when he was younger and the sadness had not congealed into bitterness. His recent attitude towards Idril is upsetting, to be sure, and tries Glorfindel’s patience, but no, he does not _dislike_ him, per say. Not any more than the other difficult elves of court. And, in truth, he does not have the heart to dislike him. There is so much bitterness outside the walls, so much enmity pressing in all around them. Glorfindel can feel Morgoth as if he were a physical presence darting up to snap at his heels. He does not want to further the cracks growing within their walls when outside cruelty waits to infiltrate their ranks. So he makes a point to not dislike Maeglin.

 _Distrust,_ however, is another matter. Maeglin sparks every alarm Glorfindel ever had, both the instinctual and the cultivated, and Glorfindel dreads the day when his suspicions might prove true. But they maintain something like congeniality for the sake of court while others abandon Maeglin’s presence, and even Glorfindel has to concede that he is probably the most fit to infiltrate the House of the Mole.

Turns out that he doesn’t even really need to do much, for Maeglin invites him over for dinner without Glorfindel even pressing for his company. He received the invitation, hand-written on crisp white paper, only a few hours ago, and found himself oddly pleased. Perhaps this was a good sign. Perhaps Maeglin took some space to think, and is ready to make amends or at least move toward a greater friendliness with the rest of the Houses.

So it is that he finds himself in front of the halls of the House of the Mole, reaching up to ring a tinkling silver bell to announce his arrival. He hopes Maeglin will be good company tonight, but if not he resolves to make due and gather what information he can.

Within moments the door opens, and Glorfindel is struck dumb with surprise.

The elf answering the door must be Maeglin’s new seneschal, for he wears the bright red cord of office twined in his deep, ebony-black hair. It falls down in a glossy curtain over his shoulders, framing a pale face. Moss green eyes, framed by thick lashes, glance up at Glorfindel with a sort of masked look, cool and professional. Glorfindel stands frozen—so long has he been at war, with war-like people as his only companions, that he had forgotten what it was like to look at beauty— to stare and marvel at its softness. He finds his heart blossoms at the sight of this lovely elf, a strange thankfulness rising in him.

“Good evening, my Lord,” The elf says, and his voice is a rich, velvet thing, like sable fur. “My name is Erestor, seneschal of this House. If you please, follow me.”

Glorfindel barely manages to collect himself enough to nod and follow, his mouth shut tight to keep himself from mumbling to himself _Erestor, Erestor._ He wants to follow this elf around, wants to bask in this unexpected relief a little longer. War—as much as he is built for it— wears him down, beats at his heart and mind with an unrelenting ferocity. And now Maeglin’s seneschal, of all people, is the one to offer him, completely unintentionally, a moment of respite.

Glorfindel watches Erestor’s back as he leads him down the high, pillared hallway. He has to tamp down the urge to reach out, to just lean his forehead between Erestor’s shoulder blades, just rest and _breathe_ for a few blessed moments. _Oh, he is so beautiful._

Erestor, if he notices the effect he is having on Glorfindel, does not remark on it. Instead, his face retains that passive, blank look, though Glorfindel notices the way his eyes search the hallway. Looking for things to be done, even though it grows late and surely his duties must stop at some point. But here is another beautiful thing about this elf: his dedication to his Lord’s home is evident, as Glorfindel is sure he’s never seen so many flowers in Maeglin’s house. It warms him to know that someone, somewhere is watching the hearth, is living outside the maelstrom of war.

All too soon Erestor leads him to the dining hall, where Maeglin is already seated with a glass of wine, his face scrunched over a letter in his hands. When Glorfindel and Erestor enter he folds it away and stands.

“Ah, my Lord,” he says, smiling at Glorfindel and giving a slight nod. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I’m glad as well,” Glorfindel replies and grasps Maeglin’s forearm in greeting, inclining his head. “Might I offer my compliments on your choice of seneschal? Your house is looking lovely.”

Maeglin smirks. “It’s the flowers, isn’t it? You are so transparent, my Lord. But yes,” he turns to Erestor, who stands demurely in the corner. Glorfindel thinks he can see the slightest smile on his lips. “He was quite a find. My previous seneschal and I, unfortunately, had to part ways.” A dark look flits briefly across his face. “He proved himself to be… not useful.”

There is probably a further story there and Glorfindel tucks the thought away for Egalmoth to pour over later. For now, he simply replies, “I am sorry to hear that, my Lord.”

The dark moment is soon gone, and Maeglin brightens. “Ah, a small loss for a greater gain. Erestor has been invaluable to me.” He takes Glorfindel’s arm and leads him to the table, seating him at his right hand while he sits down at the head of the table. There are just two place settings for them, along with candles and a bowl of fresh fruit for them to share while they wait. “I apologize,” Maeglin continues. “Dinner tonight is a subdued affair. I find myself tired of court life, and wish for some pleasant company. Do you not agree?”

Glorfindel nods. “I do,” he says, surprised at how much he concurs. “Things have been rather tense as of late, or perhaps I am only now just feeling the accumulation of so many years of war. But yes, I desire peaceful company more often than not these days.”

Erestor leans over his shoulder to pour him a glass of wine, something light and cool and sparkling. Glorfindel can feel the edge of his robe brush his arm.

Maeglin lifts his glass and inclines it toward Glorfindel. “Well, here’s to a swift end to this conflict, and a new age of peace.”

Glorfindel raises his glass and taps it against Maeglin’s, the soft _ting!_ reverberating through the room. “As you say—to a swift end of war and an even swifter coming of peace.” An impossible toast, but Glorfindel appreciates it.

Dinner passes delightfully enough, to Glorfindel’s surprise. Maeglin, now that they are alone, finds his clever tongue easier without outside pressures weighing on them. Glorfindel finds himself laughing and enjoying himself, though his mood is much lifted by the dark-haired presence in the corner. Erestor is the only one to serve them tonight, disappearing every now and then to bring in the next course. It’s the only sign of Maeglin’s discontent—Glorfindel recognizes the reduced staff as a sign of paranoia. The table, too, is set so Maeglin faces all the exits, keeping everything in his line of sight. His fingers tap too quickly against the linen tablecloth. His long, tapered sword sways from his belt. His sharp eyes belie his easy words. It is no more than should be expected from Maeglin, but still. Glorfindel _was_ sent here to observe and catalogue, so he sips his wine only lightly and keeps an eye on Maeglin’s ticks.

His master’s fear means Erestor is worked harder than he probably should be (in Glorfindel’s opinion), but he doesn’t seem to mind. His feet are swift and his replies to Maeglin’s commands are quick and soft. Having a competent staff, if a minimal one, might be good for Maeglin. Glorfindel hopes so, if only for the King’s sake. It weighs on Turgon, to see his nephew so troubled.

After dinner Maeglin invites him to walk in the gardens. Glorfindel, ever eager for any excuse to walk in any garden, agrees.

The sun is setting over the edge of the ringed mountains, a purple mist drifting up through the roses. The sharp smell of snow rolling in from the high breezes mingles with the heady scent of flowers, and Glorfindel breathes deep. Striped, multi-colored stones rise up from inside rings of hedges, a nod to Maeglin’s mining endeavors and the glory of his House. Maeglin’s tastes tend to run more traditional, more exact— carefully trimmed trees and bushes line avenues filled with roses. They wander through, taking their time as Glorfindel admires the stones and the thick bushes. Erestor, ever-present, follows along behind.

“It’s the moles,” Maeglin explains, smiling wryly. “I have to find flowers with sturdy enough roots to withstand the moles.”

Glorfindel chuckles, and is about to reply when another elf, the first Glorfindel’s seen all evening other than Erestor and Maeglin himself, trots up from inside the house to whisper in Erestor’s ear. Erestor nods, dismisses the elf, and approaches them.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my Lords,” He says, bowing. “An urgent message has just arrived from the King.”

Maeglin sighs. “I’ll go see to it.” He turns to Glorfindel. “This shouldn’t take too long, and I was enjoying your conversation. Would you mind waiting while I attend to this? I realize it’s growing late, but perhaps I could ply you with promises to show you my greenhouse? I have some night-blooming flowers I think you’d enjoy.”

Glorfindel smiles. “It is no problem, my Lord. You have convinced me.”

Maeglin nods. “Erestor,” he says, turning to his seneschal. “Would you be so kind as to entertain our guest until I return?”

Erestor nods. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“Good. Excuse me my Lord, I won’t be long.” Maeglin squeezes Glorfindel’s arm in an abrupt show of familiarity and turns back to the house, his long strides taking him away into the mist.

Glorfindel turns to Erestor. He doesn’t know how to start a conversation with him, exactly, but he desperately wants to— this sudden opportunity is too precious to waste. “It seems he knows my weaknesses,” He tries, a little feeble.

It is enough. Erestor gives a sly smile. “It would seem so, my Lord, though if the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower wasn’t fond of plants then I feel there would be more wrong with the world than it currently stands.”

Glorfindel chuckles. “I suppose so! And thus your Lord’s fondness for small, digging things. Tell me, do they bother you? I am sure we have no moles in my gardens—I find they chew up the roots as well as the beetles. I much prefer robins to control the insect population.”

Erestor sighs, some of his professional demeanor slipping. “The moles get into _everything,_ ” he says, groaning a little. “Our only salvation is that the entirety of our House lines their armor in mole skins, but that means I must both cull the population and keep it plump enough to supply the armory—all the while protecting the roses.”

The little wrinkle in Erestor’s nose as he frowns is _delightful._ Glorfindel can tell that he’s tired—Erestor does not strike him as the type of person to let his guard drop so quickly without something to wear him down. Glorfindel grins, wanting to indulge himself and Erestor while he can. “Please then, Seneschal, show me more of these roses that you have fought so valiantly for.”

Erestor inclines his head. “As you wish.”

They wander through the roses but soon Erestor turns him away to the Herb Garden, fenced off to the side. Here raised beds, undoubtedly protected with stone below, hold lines of vegetables and herbs, both for cooking and healing. Little spider webs glisten between tomato cages, stretching over small, under-ripe peppers. Glorfindel notes that Erestor’s attention piques at the herbs, and Erestor spends some time just detailing their names and the various strains they’ve managed to cultivate. Glorfindel knows all of them (he has his name to live up to indeed). He even knows the parent lines of some of their new strains, (they come from his own garden—the House gardeners are always trading), but he doesn’t mention this to Erestor. He’s content listening to the silky sound of Erestor’s voice, watching him slowly become more comfortable in Glorfindel’s presence. By the end of the first row Erestor is telling him half-stories and anecdotes about where he got this plant or that, and how his master likes them or not.

And Glorfindel is at peace. Erestor, at first, had appeared to him as a crystalline moment, a glimpse of beauty in a tumultuous world. Glorfindel was content with that. But now, as they walk deeper into the gardens, Glorfindel finds Erestor’s conversation and company to be equally sweet. A surprise indeed, to find someone like this deep in the House of the Mole. Erestor has a soft, hesitant confidence, reminding Glorfindel more and more of the delicate herbs beside them. It seems to Glorfindel that Erestor must be very young, at least compared to himself, but he has a quick eye and an instinct for people.

“These,” Erestor leans down to pluck a sprig of curled leaves. “These were in the wine you drank this evening.” He rubs them in his fingers and holds the sprig up for Glorfindel to smell.

Glorfindel bends over his fingers, appreciating the deep, clear scent. He thinks now that the turn away from the roses was intentional on Erestor’s part—ever has the smell of green things soothed and comforted him, even more than the scent of flowers. Glorfindel can see already how Erestor will undoubtedly grow into a keen and clever advisor, should Maeglin keep him around. At first Glorfindel had been happy for Maeglin, finding such a prize for an assistant, but now little tendrils of jealousy wind their way around his heart. He wonders what it would have been like if he had found Erestor _first._

“You seem very fond of your Lord,” Glorfindel remarks.

Erestor gives the smallest of smiles, tilting his head toward Glorfindel. “He has put much faith in me,” he replies. “I wish to meet his expectations.” He pauses, as if thinking of what to say next, but falls silent.

Glorfindel watches Erestor’s pensive look. “Your Lord is lucky to have you. You seem a very competent assistant—an invaluable treasure.”

A very light pink tint rises in Erestor’s cheeks, almost invisible in the low light. “You flatter me, my Lord.”

“Call me Glorfindel,” he says, as abrupt and surprising to himself as it must be to Erestor. “If you wish it,” he stumbles.

Erestor’s face is now a little more than pink. “I do not know if that would be appropriate,” he replies. Glorfindel’s heart sinks, in embarrassment and disappointment both, but Erestor continues, “But if you wish it, I will.”

Glorfindel grins, relief rising up fast in him. “I do. I find that I’ve enjoyed our conversation very much, and if your Lord does not mind I’d like to continue it beyond tonight. Perhaps in my garden? We could compare our strains of mint.” There. That should be enough to ward off any last vestiges of impropriety.

 _At least for now,_ Glorfindel muses, and tucks _that_ thought away for later.

Erestor huffs a little laugh. “I do, contrary to popular belief, have days off. I’m sure he would not mind.”

Glorfindel chuckles. “Some Lords keep their staff very close, and yours has a reputation for doing so. I would not want to cause tension with my request.”

Erestor shrugs, waving him away. “I would not worry.”

Glorfindel feels a brief prick of concern. He was not wrong in his estimation. Maeglin is _very_ possessive. That Erestor, for all his quick wit, does not seem to think that his Lord will have an opinion on his whereabouts, even on his days off, is something of note. What could cause Maeglin to trust Erestor so deeply so quickly?

Glorfindel doesn’t have time to consider that further, as Maeglin turns the corner at the end of the Herb Garden to join them.

“I apologize, my Lord,” he says, a line of consternation creasing his brow. “That took longer than expected. I’m afraid some urgent business has come up, and I will not be able to entertain you for the rest of the evening. I trust the company in my absence was adequate?”

Glorfindel nods. “More than adequate. Your seneschal was just showing me the herbs, which are always a delight to me.”

“I’m glad he could be of service in my absence,” Maeglin replies. “But again, I’m afraid I must leave you. Erestor, will you please show Lord Glorfindel out?”

Erestor bows. “As you wish, my Lord.”

Maeglin gives Glorfindel a final farewell, and then he disappears back up the garden path. His cloak whips out behind him, an inky black cloud.

Glorfindel and Erestor are once more left alone.

“This way.” Erestor leads Glorfindel back out of the gardens and to the front gate. Glorfindel notes with some confusion the absence of a guard outside, and turns his thoughts again to the report he must give Ecthelion and Egalmoth.

Erestor unlocks the gate and opens it. “I bid you good evening, Glorfindel.”

Thoughts of Egalmoth and Ecthelion subside. Glorfindel turns to him. “I meant what I said earlier. I’d like it if you came and visited my House. When's your next day off?”

Erestor’s lips flicker with a smile. Perhaps he thought Glorfindel would let the subject drop, and is glad that he didn’t. “I have one day off for every fortnight. My next should be in three days, save my Lord require me for some greater errand.”

“Then will you come to my House? I’ll tell them to expect you.” Glorfindel _hopes._

Erestor inclines his head in that delicate way Glorfindel has come to know as a sign of pleasure. “I have a few things to take care of in the morning, and I would not want to take you away from court. In the evening, perhaps?”

Glorfindel had planned on requesting time off or calling in sick (Ha! Maybe he could get Tuor to fall for that) for that day, but no matter. “Perfect.”


	7. Memories: Gondolin

Surprisingly, the three days pass swiftly enough. Turgon keeps him busy, or, rather, Tuor does. Turgon’s passed a lot of responsibility down to his son-in-law (so he has more time to be a doting grandfather, no doubt) and Tuor proves to be an exacting commander. Bewilderment ripples through the court—not many expected such fierceness and fire from a mortal. Glorfindel forgets sometimes that just because their lives are so short does not mean that the Children of Men gutter and flicker away. Instead, it seems the opposite is true: men burn all the brighter for their mortality, like all the brightness of the elves is condensed down into a pulsing singularity. Tuor is full of such bright, keen-eyed wisdom, of a kind Glorfindel has never seen before. No wonder Idril (and, he suspects, Voronwë) follow him so.

It is only when he arrives home and shucks his boots off his aching feet does anticipation come rushing back. He counts the days down in his head and tries to maintain composure whenever he sees Ecthelion and Egalmoth in the hallways, _especially_ when he forbids them to come to his house on that particular night.

And then, when he’s not looking, the day arrives. It’s grey and cloudy and autumn is just beginning to turn its cheek to the chill and he’s already most of the way home from court when he realizes _oh—_

And then he _does not_ sprint home but he does, perhaps, hurry. The sun is yet high but all at once he realizes that he actually doesn’t know when Erestor is going to show up and—

And his hair is still wet and a mess besides when he stumbles out of his rooms wearing some old thing that Ecthelion said he looked good in once (by the Valar, he is _hopeless)_ but since then he’s put on some muscle and it’s _tight_ and is that a bad thing? But it’s deep blue like his eyes even if it does have far too many buttons and by this point he just gives up. He can’t stand to wait around in the foyer or his office or anywhere else so he tells his seneschal that he’ll be in the gardens.

The House of the Golden Flower is built pressed flush up against one of the outer peaks. No one in particular had wanted this part of the city for their own as the shear, sharp edges of the cliffs were unsuited for much besides being cold. But where others only saw blank stone, Glorfindel saw _opportunity._ Now he opens the back door of his house out into his gardens—his pride and joy. Ecthelion keeps telling him that Glorfindel will never be able to keep track of children the way he flutters about some days but really, he doesn’t _need_ children when he has _this._

Terraced steppes wind their way up the side of the cliff, filled with herbs and sweet flowers and sinuous lines of fruit trees. Climbing vines wind around iron hooks piercing the mountainside, their fading blossoms spilling the last of their sweet perfume over him. Tomatoes and peppers and strawberries and raspberries wink out from under dewy leaves. Little horse-tail waterfalls wisp out from the crags, falling down with sweet music over the glorious, frothing green _mess_ that is his garden.

He climbs the stone steps a few levels up to his favorite spot, a little copse of birch trees that he keeps just because they’re so beautiful in the fall. The leaves just turned golden a few days ago, brighter than any King’s crown. He sits at the base of one, feeling the steady roughness of the bark on his back and coolness of the loam under his thighs.

Nervousness, for him, expresses itself in a sort of frantic physicality. He wants to just _roll around_ in the grass, to climb the trees and take fistfuls of leaves to scatter around, but he remains calm. The sun is high, and it may yet be some time before Erestor arrives. It would not do to receive his guest in a frantic state. So he forces himself to be still, letting the distant clapping sound of leaves in the breeze siphon off some of his anxiety.

And, and—

And then all his breath leaves him at once, Erestor’s _here,_ standing in the middle of the garden with his hair loose from its red cord and his mouth open in astonishment, gazing up the cliff side to where the air glitters in the golden hour. Glorfindel freezes, watching as Erestor turns in a slow circle, taking in the profusion of green tumbling down around him. Erestor’s only a couple levels down from where Glorfindel waits in the birches, caught up among the blackberry brambles but he doesn’t seem to mind the way they snatch at his long, grey robes. He only has eyes for the hydrangeas, for the bowers of grape vines—and Glorfindel only has eyes for _him,_ the most beautiful thing in all his domain.

He could keep staring all day but that, unfortunately, would be rude so Glorfindel finally manages to pull himself together into something approaching composed and calls down to Erestor.

“Enjoying my garden?” He says, rising up from the ground to lean against a tall trunk.

Erestor jerks, startled, but when he turns to Glorfindel his face holds only wonder. “It’s magnificent,” he replies. “However did you manage to create such a thing this close to the rock?”

Glorfindel steps down the stone steps to join Erestor, trying to keep his smile under control. “Terraces,” he says. “They keep the soil from washing away, and hold whatever goodness the rain brings down from the mountain.”

There’s the _slightest_ eye roll from Erestor. “Yes, I see,” he replies. “But how did you get the terraces in the rock in the first place? We are on the north side of the city—the rock here is colder and more brittle than elsewhere. Did you carve straight into the rock and import the soil, or did you bring both stone and soil in from elsewhere?”

Glorfindel grins. “Both. The lower levels are added on, but the upper ones are born out of the mountainside. Here, I’ll show you.” He hold out his hand without thought and it’s only after Erestor’s taken it that he realizes _oh._ By all the gods he’s only known Erestor for _four days_ three of which he didn’t even see— and does Erestor even know how Glorfindel—how—he _must_ know—

Erestor saves him the embarrassment of his slip-up by sliding his hand up Glorfindel’s sleeve, tucking it over his elbow. Proper, respectable. Glorfindel and Egalmoth and Ecthelion walk arm in arm all the time, in confidence and friendship. Erestor and his careful, demure turns, saving Glorfindel’s blushing face.

“Lead on, Glorfindel.” Erestor says in that sable-rich voice, and the smile on his face is teasing and fond. Oh, he knows alright, he knows _everything—_ he sees Glorfindel’s stumbling attempts and plays right along, batting at him gently like a cat with a feather.

And Glorfindel _laughs_ , all the nervousness and awkwardness spilling out into delight. “You bewitching creature,” he says, biting his lip. “You’ve seen right through me.” And he leans over, tips Erestor’s chin up, and kisses his cheek.

And Erestor’s answering gasp, his long eyelashes trembling under Glorfindel’s lips— Glorfindel hums against Erestor’s skin, slipping his hand back down to thread their fingers together.


	8. Memories: Gondolin

Sunset finds them curled up in the highest level of his garden, spread with heather and flowers and a few beehives tucked away from the waterfalls. Erestor’s head is pillowed on his chest, his hand flat against Glorfindel’s hip. Glorfindel has his fingers sifting through that silky hair, warm and loose. They speak softly to each other under the hiss of water, enjoying the light frisson of excitement and contentment intermingled. Erestor is so calm slumped against him, but his thumb keeps doing this maddening thing on the ridge of hipbone and Glorfindel _knew_ he shouldn’t have worn something so _tight_ but he refuses to act on it, for once. Living in war means he has so little time to pause, to savor. Now, for this brief moment, they _have_ time so Glorfindel intends to take it slow, to enjoy this new thing—at least for as long as he can stand it.

Erestor’s talking about everything and nothing right now, meandering on about plants. He knows, of course, how Glorfindel loves to hear about them. Glorfindel thinks it’s a safe bet to assume the Erestor knows much more about him than he lets on.

“Erestor,” Glorfindel asks, his voice low and musing.

Erestor pauses in his thoughts about apples and looks up. _Hmm?_

“Did you ask about me? After I visited Maeglin?” He leans up on his elbows, nuzzling Erestor’s hair.

“…Perhaps,” comes the reluctant reply. _Ah-ha._

Glorfindel chuckles. “And what did you hear?”

Erestor huffs, blushing at being found out. “Nothing new.”

Glorfindel hums, drawing him up closer. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it’s my job to know everyone in the city and their preferences. You are no exception.” Erestor replies, coy and aloof.

“So what did you hear?” Glorfindel kisses Erestor’s brow, wheedling. ““Oh Lord Glorfindel, he’s so handsome and charming! Arguably the best singer in the land and his hair is so beautiful!” things like that?”

Erestor snorts. “And very vain too, if the reports are to be believed.”

Glorfindel concedes with a dramatic sigh. “You wound me.”

Erestor rolls his eyes and refuses to reply, but Glorfindel can feel the captured laugh reverberating through where his chest presses against Glorfindel’s.

“Tell me, Erestor,” He continues. “Since I have no one to ask about you, you must tell me about yourself.”

Erestor cocks his head, and Glorfindel thinks he is surprised. “And what would you know?”

“Anything you would tell me,” Glorfindel replies.

“Such a broad category.” Erestor traces the line of buttons down his chest, looking away.

“Well… how old are you? For a start.” Glorfindel asks. “What are your parents like? Do you have siblings?”

“Hush, slowly my Lord.” Erestor presses down on his chest, stopping the line of questions. Glorfindel frowns. _My Lord?_

“I am a little over one hundred and twenty, though I do not know the exact year.” Erestor’s reply is flat. Glorfindel thinks that maybe he asked the wrong question, but Erestor continues. “My parents are dead, and died when I was very young. This is why I don’t know my exact age—the outer branches of the House of the Mole took me in to their mining operations and no one ever bothered to tell me.”

Glorfindel frowns. Erestor’s eyes are going a strange sort of grey. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” he says. “I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything.”

Erestor grows silent and slumps over Glorfindel’s chest, resting his chin on his hand as he looks up. Glorfindel shifts higher up on his elbows, watching Erestor search his face. He looks pensive, troubled. “Will you tell me something, my Lord?”

“Of course,” Glorfindel replies, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Erestor’s ear.

“Why did you ask me to come here?” Erestor says.

Glorfindel searches his face, watching as a flicker of suspicion darts through his eyes. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

Erestor’s fingers slip down the line of buttons, dangerously low. “Get to know me better?” he repeats. “Like this?” He brushes his hand up Glorfindel's thigh. 

Glorfindel bites his lip. “Maybe if—if that’s what you want. But if you want to stay up here and tell me everything you know about flowers then—then I want that too.” He gives a lopsided grin, a little helpless. “I just like being around you.”

Erestor narrows his eyes, genuinely confused. “Why?”

Glorfindel shrugs. “I like you. I think you’re clever and thoughtful and kind. And I want to know you better.”

Now the confusion on Erestor’s face has grown into something more like incredulity. “Truly? You met me _once_ a few days ago and you deduced all that?”

Glorfindel tugs a strand of his hair. “ _Yes,_ I did. And now you tell me, Erestor, why the sudden suspicion?”

Erestor takes a long pause, his long fingers playing along the buttons. When he does speak it is with a sideways answer. “It seems like this is a lot of preamble for the bedroom. Unless you wanted to fuck out here?”

Glorfindel blinks. “I don’t—? This isn’t—this isn’t just preamble. At least, for me.”

Erestor stays silent for a long time. Then, “You don’t have to pretend, my Lord. I’m… pretty. That’s why people invite me over. You don’t have to pretend that it’s anything else.”

Glorfindel sucks in a breath and holds it, watching a sudden, real fear creep up around the edges of Erestor’s eyes.

And perhaps Erestor doesn’t know everything about him.

Perhaps he doesn’t know much at all.

“Erestor.” He says. Erestor looks away. “Listen to me.” Glorfindel, very carefully, tips Erestor’s face towards him. “If I just wanted pretty, I could look in the mirror and pleasure _myself.”_

And that must have been the right thing to say because Erestor looks at him with his mouth gaping open for one long second and then he  _laughs,_ just laughs and laughs—pressing his face into the crook of Glorfindel’s shoulder to hide the tears spilling from his eyes. Glorfindel chuckles and draws him up close, waiting for Erestor’s giggles to subside.

“You _are_ very pretty.” Erestor leans back, wiping his eyes. “So tell me, since I’ve entirely misjudged the situation—did you really invite me here to—to _snuggle_ in the flowers?”

Glorfindel beams. “Maybe something like that. I really do like you, Erestor. I meant what I said.”

“Apparently so.” The coy, teasing Erestor is back, but this time there’s something else there, something Glorfindel hadn’t noticed was missing before. “You must have a far greater gift for perception than myself.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s true,” Glorfindel returns. “I do not know anyone else who has cared for Maeglin so lovingly or so well—that takes great care and perception. I noticed the flowers.”

Erestor’s face sort of crumples. “He’s… he’s been so kind to me. And it seems like such horrible, terrifying things follow his every step.” He twists his fingers around a button. “I want to be good to him.”

“You are. I can see it. Maeglin’s been more at peace than I’ve seen him in a long time.” Glorfindel cups his face with one hand and Erestor _leans_ into it.

The last of the red-gold light falls down over the mountains, burnishing Glorfindel’s hair where it drifts up around his face. Erestor settles back down over his chest and for a moment they just breathe, letting the light drift away into mist.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor says, and Glorfindel sighs to hear his name again. “Do… do you want me to come over again?”

“ _Of course,_ ” Glorfindel presses a wry kiss into Erestor’s hair “You foolish thing.” But he’s entirely too fond for the admonition to be anything other than a pet name.

Erestor nuzzles closer, then says “I better get back soon.”

Glorfindel hears the test underneath the words—did Glorfindel mean what he said, did he really just desire Erestor’s company and not just a good fuck?

It’s an easy test to pass. “Shall I take you to the gate, then?”

Erestor nods, and Glorfindel makes his way to his feet to help him rise.

They walk the steep steps down and this time Glorfindel waits until Erestor takes his hand before threading their fingers together. When they reach the bottom of the garden Glorfindel leads him out to the side gate, set in a curling wrought iron fence covered in vines. They’re still safe here, shielded from the city and its pressing demands, and while Glorfindel wishes Erestor would stay longer he knows the gift he offers with parting early is greater. If Erestor wants proof of Glorfindel’s sincerity, then Glorfindel will offer it gladly.

Still, they linger by the gate. Erestor looks down at their clasped hands, swinging between them. Then he takes a step and a half and is suddenly pressed up close, _so_ close—Glorfindel’s hands flutter like birds, settling nervously on Erestor’s hips.

“I—I like you, Glorfindel.” Erestor says, nearly a whisper. “Even if all you want is a pretty thing to warm your bed, I like you.” His eyes flicker up, catching. “I did ask about you. I asked everyone I know about you. And all I heard was praise, praise for the beautiful Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. Praise for your fairness, your kindness, your generosity and mercy. Your quick smile and your gentle words.” Erestor’s hands press up, running over Glorfindel’s stuttering lungs to his shoulders. He gives a quick smirk. “And, of course, for your shining _hair—”_ Erestor digs his hands back in Glorfindel’s hair, clenching tight at the nape of his neck and Glorfindel _gasps—_ his breath coming quick and hard—

“Erestor—” Glorfindel _moans,_ fingers tight on Erestor’s hips, shaking.

“And I thought to myself,” Erestor continues, his voice dropping. “I thought I must be crazy, or else the luckiest elf in all Gondolin, for you to invite me to your house, your _gardens_ —” And then, as if he can’t take it anymore, Erestor pulls Glorfindel down into a crushing kiss, open-mouthed and slick and _hot—_

Glorfindel _drowns_ in it, drinking deep of Erestor’s mouth and the feel of that lithe body flush against his. Whatever chaste touches they’d exchanged before burn up under Erestor tongue licking up into his mouth, his hands brutally tight in his hair. Glorfindel slams him up against the fence, nipping at those plush red lips, the pale neck bared for his _teeth—_

Then Erestor says, “I had better get back,” and while Glorfindel doesn’t think that kissing him was a part of the test _now_ he’s a little sore about letting Erestor go so soon.

He licks over the blooming purple bruise on Erestor’s neck one last time, enjoying the answering shudder before pulling back. “As you wish, my dove.”

And there’s this odd crease between Erestor’s eyebrows at that, a little tilt in his head. He looks both lost and found at once.

Glorfindel kisses the crease away, chaste and sweet. “Goodnight. Sleep well.”

Erestor smiles. “Goodnight, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel undoes the latch and lets Erestor slip out into the darkening evening. Then he turns away to his house, knowing he’ll need to _take care_ of a few things before sleep will come to him tonight.

But there’s this tiny window, no more than a large peephole really, that looks out on the street side of the fence and as he passes it Glorfindel glances out to see if maybe he can catch a parting glimpse of Erestor.

_Oh—_

Erestor’s leaning against the fence, one hand on his heart and one pressed to the side of the brightest smile Glorfindel’s ever seen—there’s a high blush in his cheeks and he looks like he swallowed all the stars for joy he’s shining so. A few shaking fingers drift to his lips, his neck, and Erestor bites down on the heel of his hand in a futile attempt to hide his grin and he looks so, _so_ happy.

Glorfindel leans up against the window, his breath frosting the glass.

Oh, and he is already absolutely, completely, wholly lost.


	9. Memories: Gondolin

Erestor remembers.

He doesn’t like remembering. But that can’t be helped now.

 

He remembers walking home like he’s in a dream, an impossible dream where his whole body pulses around the bruise on his neck—the ghost of Glorfindel’s mouth still lapping at the tender skin there, the imprint of his hands still pressing at the small of Erestor’s back—but the _best_ thing, the most beautiful impossible thing is if he closes his eyes Erestor can still see the way Glorfindel looks at him.

And that thought—the thought of those deep-gem blue eyes— is too much for the whole world to contain.

Erestor hurries down the winding white avenues, his feet soft and fleet. He needs to get home, to his little room in the back of the House, where he can scream into a pillow and no one will hear him.

The House of the Mole curves along the southern edge of the city, sidling up against the outer wall. Flags hang limp from the towers, a rich midnight black fluttering along the white stone. Erestor knows Maeglin likes to weave the flags himself, when he has the time, and slips purple and blue threads in with the black to make them shimmer. Tonight his master will be home, no doubt working even though it’s his day of rest too.

Erestor enters in through the side gate, pausing on his way to the interior of the house to gather more flowers. These flowers are from his own personal garden, a gift from Maeglin sectioned away from the rest of the grounds. Here Erestor can keep out the moles and grow more delicate plants, like the lavender and mint he plucks to gather in his sleeves. Their sweet scent rises up around him, bits of leaves and flower buds tangling in his hair.

When he has a large enough bundle he locks the gate behind him and makes his way into the interior of the house, searching. Perhaps Maeglin will be in his study—his favorite haunt this time of night.

Maeglin is in his study, and he’s not alone. Erestor gently knocks and opens the door to find Salgant and Maeglin sitting in front of the hearth, deep in conversation. At Erestor’s entrance they look up, falling silent.

“I apologize, my Lord.” Erestor bows, backing out of the door. “I will return later.”

“It’s no matter,” Maeglin replies, rising. “We were just finishing, don’t mind us.”

Erestor nods and turns to a large vase on the windowsill, removing the drying flowers and replacing them with his fresh ones.

Salgant follows Maeglin, his shadow clipping Erestor’s line of sight. “So this is your new seneschal?” He speaks as if Erestor isn’t there and Erestor’s hackles rise just a tiny bit. He tucks the brightness of his visit with Glorfindel away for later.

“This is Erestor, yes.” Maeglin says. “He has a fondness for flowers.”

There’s something of an edge to that statement. Erestor ducks his head and hurries.

“He’s certainly as pretty as one,” Salgant muses, and even though Erestor has his back turned to them he knows the feeling of eyes running over his skin. “Congratulations on the find, he seems to work well for you.”

Maeglin hums in assent. “Absolutely. He’s worked out better than I hoped.”

The praise washes over him like a cool balm and Erestor relaxes.

There’s a clink as Salgant places his glass of wine on the edge of Maeglin’s desk. “Well then. I’d best be going. I’ll meet you later?”

Erestor picks up the old flowers and turns away from the vase to see Maeglin give a short nod. “As agreed. Goodnight, my Lord.”

“Goodnight.” Salgant bows, and with a turn of his heel is out the door.

Maeglin leans against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed and his brow lined in thought.

“Is there anything you require, my Lord?” Erestor takes a half-step forward.

Maeglin snorts. “It’s your day off, Erestor.”

“I’ve done everything I wanted to do for today. It’s no trouble.” He holds the wilting flowers close in his arms, feeling their feather-soft petals crumble in his fingers.

Maeglin sighs, a deep thing from the hollows of his chest. “No, Erestor. I need nothing save for some quiet time to think. Go enjoy the rest of your night.”

Erestor bows. “As you wish, my Lord,” he replies, and turns away to the door.

As the tips of his fingers brush the handle Maeglin calls out to him. “Wait.”

“My Lord?” Erestor turns back.

“What did you do with your time off?” he asks, tilting his head.

Erestor pauses. “I ran a few errands to the lower districts, and I wrote a letter to the chief foreman requesting a few things, and—and Lord Glorfindel invited me to see his garden, so I visited the House of the Golden Flower.”

The firelight casts a strange under-shadow along the sharp edges of Maeglin’s face. Opposite, the cold moonlight glimmers soft in the corners of Maeglin’s eyes, his lips. He looks caught—that is the word Erestor thinks whenever he thinks of his Lord, though he does not know why. Caught between flames and ice.

Maeglin’s mouth quirks. “And how did you like the House of the Golden Flower?”

Erestor smiles, unable to help himself. “Very much, my Lord. His gardens are extensive and well-kept.”

“I’m sure they are. He has a reputation to maintain.” Maeglin says. “I hope you had a good time while you were there.”

Erestor can feel the tips of his ears burning. “I did, my Lord. Thank you for asking.”

Maeglin chuckles. “You’re welcome. Now,” he tilts his chin to the door. “Leave me for a while. I won’t have need of you until tomorrow.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” Erestor replies, and ducks out the door.


	10. Memories: Gondolin

The next day Erestor sends a letter to the House of the Golden Flower. The envelope is filled with lavender and a scrap of paper with the date of his next day off scribbled on it. He supposes the brevity and mystery of the note makes it seem very romantic, but in truth it’s because he’s too nervous to think of anything else to say. He receives a reply back—a box the size of his fist stuffed with golden birch leaves. He hides the box under his bed and his smile under a mask of professionalism.

During the day he performs as usual for Maeglin. Better, even. The House gleams with his care, its members running smoothly and efficiently. Erestor’s proud, justly so, and if Maeglin can tell that Erestor’s burning off all his excess energy by pouring himself into his work he doesn’t say anything about it.

He learns that a fortnight is a very long amount of time. By the time the last day passes Erestor’s not sure what he’s feeling, exactly. Excitement, anticipation—and a horrible, vicious kind of hope, the kind that thinks maybe he’ll get invited over again after this. He’s not sure about that. Glorfindel is good and true and honest, he wasn’t _lying_ when he said he wanted to get to know Erestor better beyond just a casual fling. _(oh, by all the gods, Glorfindel_ wants _him—)_ But he’s a Lord of the Gondolindrim, and Erestor is not only very, very low-born but employed and loyal to a different House. _He_ doesn’t think he’s worth whatever trouble that might bring, but _Glorfindel_ might. That thought drips burning down his spine, like acid pooling in his stomach. He hopes. He _hopes._

And when dawn creeps over the mountains on his day off he goes to work anyway. Anything to keep himself occupied until the evening.

He’s in the middle of restocking the armory when Maeglin catches him.

“Erestor.” Maeglin chides, leaning against the doorway. “I seem to recall giving you the day off.”

Erestor offers a weak smile in return. “I don’t like to be idle, my Lord.”

“Such a hardship for me, to have a seneschal who won’t take a day off.” Maeglin gives a mock sigh. “Please tell me you at least have personal plans for the evening. I’d hate to get a reputation for over-working those in my employ.”

Erestor blushes. “I do.”

Maeglin smirks. “More gardens, then?”

Maeglin knows. He must know. Erestor knows Maeglin would never doubt his loyalty to the house of the Mole, but his heart clenches in fear. Would he disapprove?

“Perhaps.” Erestor bites his lip, ears burning.

“Well then,” Maeglin’s smirk widens. “How about you take tomorrow off as well? Since you’ve spent all day today working.”

A tremble runs its way up and down his spine. “Thank you, my Lord,” he replies, bowing. “Instead of earning a reputation for harshness, I’m sure you’ll earn a reputation for being too generous.”

The smile falls from Maeglin’s face.

Through the window the sun breaks through the clouds and for a moment the light behind him shrouds his face in shadow. When Erestor manages to catch his eyes again there’s a wild glint in his eyes, a sharpness in the creases around his temples. He seems to have forgotten he even has a face as his expression slides down into a hollow blankness.

“From your mouth to Eru’s ears, Erestor,” He says, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away, from over a great, empty sea.

Erestor starts forward, unsure, feeling like there’s something wrong but nothing’s wrong—Maeglin’s smile has re-formed and all the sound in the room returns, covering up whatever he thought he saw in that aching nothingness.

“I don’t want to see you again until the day after tomorrow, is that clear?” Maeglin’s voice is indulgent and soft.

“Yes my Lord,” Erestor returns, letting the smile he’s been feeling for _days_ finally reach his face.

Maeglin turns to leave. “Have a good time, Erestor,” he says over his shoulder, and with a swish of his cloak he’s gone.

Erestor leaves the accounting unfinished because he knows Maeglin will check to make sure he’d actually stopped working, and hurries to his room.

His room and about eight others are connected to a communal bath, spokes around a central hub. Erestor rinses off in one of the central pools, pretending the goosebumps along his skin are from the cold water.

He dresses in a deep purple robe, a gift from Maeglin. After a thought he packs a small satchel with a few necessities and a clean pair of underclothes.

Then he’s off, slipping out the gate and into the city.

The light cuts red over the tops of the spires, and a sweet, cold breeze runs in from the south. It carries with it the smell of clear springs, of evergreens and their quick sap, and as it sweeps around corners and through alleys it carries away some of the cloying smog that seeps down from the north. Elves linger on the thresholds and what few children there are wander further afield to play. In truth, there are _so few_ elves left in Gondolin, at least from what there used to be, but today the streets feel busy, expectant. Erestor can feel fall on the air, can almost taste the tang of apples pressing into cider.

He’s about two blocks from the House of the Golden Flower when he turns a corner and _there he is—_ Glorfindel, looking like an avenging maia in full armor and cloak, hurrying down the avenue. His hair, tied in a high-tail, spills down his shoulders and Erestor is struck with a sudden, vivid memory of what that hair feels like tangled up in his hands.

Glorfindel is a few paces ahead of him and hasn’t seen Erestor yet. His face is set with a tired, stern look, his thoughts obviously turned inward around some heavy question. Erestor furrows his brow, troubled.

And then he smiles, thinking of a few solutions for Glorfindel’s grey mood.

He darts through the crowd until he’s able to slip beside Glorfindel’s side, matching his steps. “Long day, my Lord?” he asks.

Glorfindel _jumps_. “Oh!” he presses a hand to his heart, a bright smile quickly brushing away the frown. “Oh, my—Erestor, you _scared_ me.”

Erestor laughs, “Did I now? I’m sure I can find some way to make it up to you.”

Glorfindel snorts. “I’m sure.”

They’re in the middle of a busy avenue, with elves of all stations swirling around them but Glorfindel takes Erestor’s hand and slips it over his elbow before continuing on. Erestor’s sure every eye in the street must be looking at them, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower arm-in-arm with the House of the Mole’s seneschal, and his ears go red with embarrassment and a sort of sneaky pride.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Glorfindel continues. “Today was a long day and Tuor is a brutal taskmaster. I’m afraid I’m in no condition to receive you.” He gestures to the dust and grime on his armor, staining the edges of his tunic and white cloak.

“It’s no trouble,” Erestor replies, then leans close. “Perhaps I can help with that, as repayment for your earlier scare.”

Glorfindel doesn’t say anything in return, but his eyes heat and his pace quickens. By the time they actually make it to the House he’s as close as he can get to sprinting while keeping his dignity, dragging Erestor along.

He wrenches open the side-gate and hauls Erestor inside, slamming it shut and caging Erestor up against the vines with his body.

“Erestor—” he murmurs, his eyes black with only a sliver of blue ringing them. Still, he hesitates. “If you want to go slow, say so now—if we start I won’t want to stop.”

Erestor cants his hips up, pressing himself close. “I was thinking we could do this now, and then later, when you have me curled next to you in bed, we can talk more about… about _flowers_.”

And that was the _right_ thing to say—to offer Glorfindel the burning and the sweetness both—because his faces goes soft and when he kisses Erestor it’s with a deep, consuming tenderness.

Erestor _melts,_ all the restlessness and anxiousness of the past weeks transmuting into _joy_ running golden through his body. He throws his arms around Glorfindel’s neck, the hard press of armor too sharp through his robes but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care—_ Glorfindel has his hands deep in Erestor’s hair and his teeth in the tender skin under his ear and Erestor feels like he could spend an age here, caught between the iron fence and the vines and Glorfindel.

Glorfindel kisses a sore spot under Erestor’s jaw. “I need to get out of my armor,” he says.

“Then take me somewhere I can help you with that,” Erestor replies and nips at Glorfindel’s flushed ear, smiling when he hears that deep, answering laugh.

Glorfindel takes his hand and leads him through the house, winding deeper into the columned passageways. The House of the Golden Flower is very nearly tacky in its extravagance, certainly in comparison to the austere beauty of the House of the Mole. But Erestor thinks it suits Glorfindel, these twining halls filled with thick rugs and tapestries in all colors. Stained glass winks from the arched tops of windows and wind chimes tinkle with light music from outside.

Glorfindel leads him past the central rooms, filled with various house managers and workers, to a quieter wing guarded by great double doors. A hallway runs the length of the wing, a few doors leading away into interior rooms but mostly it’s lined with large windows overlooking the city. Here, behind the safety of the doors, potted plants line the windowsills next to piles of books and bird feeders hang from hooks outside the cracked-open windows.

Glorfindel glances back at him. “What do you think?”

“It suits you,” Erestor chuckles.

Glorfindel snorts. “A clever compliment from a competent seneschal. Come, this way.” He turns away to one of the doors, and opens it into a large closet. A few racks hold various suits of armor, along with lines of clothes hanging in neat rows.

Glorfindel begins stripping off the armor himself before Erestor moves forward.

“Here, let me,” he says, and unbuckles Glorfindel’s breastplate. Glorfindel watches his hands with hooded eyes, then reaches out to the dark purple sash circling Erestor’s waist.

They undress each other quietly, an odd thing for all the heat of a few minutes ago. The only sound left in the muffled silence of the closet is the hiss of fabric sliding over skin, the slight hitch in their breathing. Erestor feels the caution in their movements—they haven’t found a rhythm that works for them yet, though they’re getting there.

Revealing Glorfindel, layer by layer, leaves Erestor dry-mouthed and in awe. That endless stretch of golden skin, muscles hard and soft by turns as Erestor runs his hands down Glorfindel’s belly. Glorfindel’s only managed to get Erestor’s outer layer off—he keeps getting distracted and tangling his fingers in Erestor’s hair, his thumbs brushing his cheek and jaw.

“My darling,” Glorfindel whispers. “My dove.” And _that_ has Erestor shaking at the knees, his breath coming in stutters, and he can’t make himself meet Glorfindel’s eyes. Maybe that hope—that he could _keep_ this, keep _him—_ wasn’t so far off after all.

When Erestor finally has Glorfindel naked he’s still practically fully dressed—Glorfindel’s chest and neck are this deep red and he looks so vulnerable like this, bare before him and that seems wrong somehow? Lord Glorfindel, naked and trembling while he stands here clothed—like a sky turned to orange, like a mountain falling to the sea, like—like a Lord surrendering to a low-born nothing.

Glorfindel abruptly drops to his knees and pulls Erestor close by the backs of his thighs, sighing and nuzzling into the fabric over his hips.

Erestor can hardly breathe, his hands coming down to clench in Glorfindel’s hair—the only thing keeping him upright. He can feel his cock jump, can see the bulge where they tent his leggings.

“By the gods,” Glorfindel bites at the seams of his robe. “ _Erestor—”_

“G-Glorfindel—” He gasps, Glorfindel’s fingers tracing mystical patterns on the back of his knees. “Glorfindel you are _not_ going to have me in a _closet._ ”

Glorfindel’s laugh is muffled by fabric. “Very well then,” he replies, and rises. “Follow me.”

An inner door leads into a tiny room lined in warm red stone. There are a few shelves with fluffy white towels and bottles of oil lining the edges, along with a low bench carved with sparrows. A few dry, half-used bars of soap sit in a neat line in a corner. Overhead a grate, swirling with tiny intricate patters, conceals a skylight. The light is dim, making the room seem all the more cave-like. Sound, both hushed and magnified in the close space, swirls around them. The _pat pat_ of their feet, the echoes of birdsong outside. It’s warm in here too, almost unnaturally so. The stone feels almost soft under his bare feet.

The towels and soaps tell Erestor this is a bathing room, but there’s no pool, not even a small tub. Upon closer inspection there’s a drain in the floor, but no piping or tubes to be seen.

“What is this place?” Erestor asks while slipping off another layer of his robes, folding it neatly on one of the benches. He’s left in his thin shift and leggings, still a far cry from Glorfindel’s unabashed nakedness.

“It’s something I picked up from Finrod, while he yet lived. A little invention popular with the dwarves.” Glorfindel walks over to a small lever Erestor hadn’t noticed before and pulls it.

Around him the stone shudders, then a stream of water falls down through the grate in the ceiling, glittering like crushed diamonds as it steams up. The tiny designs in the grate split the water, letting it drop like rain to the stone. Light breaks through and plays along the walls—this could be a temple to Ulmo, with the gentle falling water and the refracted light dancing over the floor, over their bodies.

“This room is right next to the kitchens—the pipes run above the fireplaces there and heat the water. See?” Glorfindel holds out a hand, the water splashing over his palm. “It’s warm.” And he steps under the stream, letting it sluice over his body. For a brief moment he closes his eyes, smiling, and enjoys the warmth.

And Erestor’s eyes are blown wide at the sight—Glorfindel is not elven, he must not be, he must be _something else,_ a god, maybe— standing like living gold under the crystalline tide, the light catching in his hair and glinting off the smooth planes of his skin. He moves with such _grace,_ even here, in the small everyday motions of bathing—his hands like living flame when they loose his hair from its tail, slide down his arms.

Glorfindel looks up at him. “What is it?” he asks, an innocent, curious expression on his face.

Erestor swallows. “You—you’re so beautiful,” he replies, and the words ring hollow, empty of enormity of what they’re tying to contain.

Glorfindel smiles at the compliment anyway. “And here I was, thinking the same thing about you.” He holds out his hand. “Won’t you join me?”

If Erestor could keep that memory in his mind for all eternity he would—he would lie down in Lórien and dream only of Glorfindel reaching for him, water streaming down his body, looking like sunlight glinting off the sea.

Fumbling, Erestor just barely manages to strip without falling over. He turns away for a brief moment to fold his clothes and hide his blush, but when he looks back to Glorfindel it’s his turn to be scrutinized.

Glorfindel seems to have forgotten the water, forgotten where he is—he looks at Erestor with his _whole body,_ canting towards him with all his being. His eyes gleam in the strange underwater light, full of promises—his hand drifts up to hover over his heart, pressing down against the red flush. His throat works, caught around some unknowable words until, finally, “ _Erestor—”_

Erestor ducks his head, his ears burning, and moves to join Glorfindel, hiding his blushing face away in the crook of Glorfindel’s neck.

This turns out to be a _mistake._

Glorfindel’s slick body, naked against his—Erestor shudders _hard,_ a full-body shake rolling up his spine. Glorfindel slips his arms around Erestor’s waist and ducks his head to lap up the water running down his skin, humming in pleasure. Erestor lifts his trembling hands to circle around Glorfindel’s back, clinging tight. Glorfindel’s mouth is _heaven,_ and Erestor wishes that he’d pushed harder for a bed, or for a horizontal surface—his knees buckle and oh, _oh—_ they fall flush together, Glorfindel’s hands keep him upright but Erestor can feel his cock brushing against the ridge of Glorfindel’s hipbone and he _moans._

Glorfindel nudges his hips up in return and Erestor can feel his cock hot against his belly, weeping pre-come already. His hips stutter forward, smearing slick against Erestor’s skin, and—“Erestor, I— I’m—”

Erestor slips his hand around Glorfindel’s cock and he thrusts up into his fist, crying out, broken, as Erestor strokes him through his peak.

“Hush, I got you,” Erestor murmurs, kissing the hollow under Glorfindel’s jaw.

Glorfindel slumps, panting, then slips back down to kneel at Erestor’s feet. That feeling again, the impossibility of the sight of this great Lord at his feet—Erestor opens his mouth to protest but Glorfindel’s got his tongue on his skin again, licking up where his come splattered against Erestor’s hips and then it’s all Erestor can do to stand upright as Glorfindel takes his cock into that wet, waiting mouth.

His pleasure hits him like a punch to the gut, fast and hot and blinding—his cries echo in the tiny room, his own voice coming back distorted and cracked to his ears. Glorfindel’s hands hold tight to his thighs, keeping Erestor standing as he swallows the last of Erestor’s pleasure.

“Guh— _Glorfindel—_ too, too much—” Erestor shoves back at Glorfindel’s head but Glorfindel stays nuzzled up close, suckling on his over-sensitive cock.

“Glorfindel you _bastard_ I—I—” Erestor finally falls, dropping heavy to his knees and shaking hard.

When he finally gets his senses back Glorfindel’s got a smug grin plastered over his face. Erestor huffs, but lets Glorfindel gather him up into his lap.

“Satisfied, darling?” Glorfindel murmurs to Erestor’s collarbone.

Erestor droops over Glorfindel’s shoulders, tangling that mass of wet hair in his hands. “Perhaps,” he replies, coy.

“Well, I am in possession of a _bed,_ should you desire a variety of locations for your pleasure.” Glorfindel sucks another bruise into Erestor’s neck.

Erestor’s too wrung out to protest. “You ridiculous elf,” he whispers, letting the feel of Glorfindel’s breathing even out his heartbeat.

Glorfindel’s quiet for a moment. “When do you have to be back?” He asks, tracing the line of Erestor’s spine.

“Oh,” Erestor sits up. “I forgot to mention. My Lord’s given me tomorrow off as well.”

“Truly?” Glorfindel jerks back. “You’re kidding, you must be kidding—” He sweeps Erestor up into his arms, biting his lip to tamp down his smile. “Oh, this _changes_ things—” And he scrambles up from under Erestor to stand, dragging him up. He spares a half-second to shut the water off before careening out of the room, half tripping on their scattered clothes.

“What are you doing, you strange creature?” Erestor laughs and allows himself to be dragged back through the closet and into Glorfindel’s _bedroom,_ which is covered in books and paintings and luscious, thick rugs and is _perfect,_ lit orange and purple with the dusk light streaming through huge, open windows. The windows overlook the gardens, naturally, and the smell of healthy growing things settling down for sleep blankets the room in a clear, open scent. Erestor feels goosebumps run up his arms at the cold air hitting his wet skin, but hardly has any time to complain before Glorfindel _throws_ him on the bed, crawling up the length of his body to kiss him senseless.

When he finally comes up for air Glorfindel can’t stop grinning. “Your generous master planned this, no doubt. _I_ have tomorrow off as well—Tuor implemented a new patrol schedule a few weeks ago and he and Rog are running these next few days. Ecthelion, Egalmoth and I are off-duty but on-call, which mostly means no work save for evening reports with our cohort. Which,” he nuzzles Erestor’s chest, chuckling. “Mostly means I and my friends get together for dinner. Barring, of course, an emergency—but we’ve been solid on that front for months now.”

Erestor arches into Glorfindel’s mouth. “Well, he definitely knows even if he didn’t plan it—he asked me— _ngh—_ he asked today if I was going to visit any more gardens.”

“We could still go fuck in the gardens, if you like,” Glorfindel nips at the ridge of his collarbone.

Erestor snorts. “You’re just happy because you get to _sleep next to me,_ you romantic idiot.”

Glorfindel laughs. “Exactly. And I intend to leave you too exhausted to protest.” And he wiggles down to suck on Erestor’s nipple. “Am I succeeding?”

Erestor tugs his hair, sharp against his scalp. “Glorfindel, if you take your mouth off me for even _one second_ I swear by all the Valar I’ll—”

“Hush, you beautiful thing,” he scolds. Then Glorfindel _does_ stop, but only so he can reach over and rummage around in a side table drawer for a vial of oil. He glances over at Erestor, suddenly bashful. “It’s been a long time, for me.”

Erestor snorts. “I’m sure a long time for you and a long time for me are entirely different things. How many pretty things do you have tearing down your doors every night?” Erestor had asked about that too, but hadn’t gotten much further than hearing the _very explicit_ fantasies of nearly every baker and gardener in the city.

Glorfindel gives him a long, even look. “I haven’t taken anyone to my bed since I left Alqualondë.”

Erestor blinks, then sits upright. “What do you mean, since Alqualondë?”

Glorfindel kneels next to him. “I haven’t had a lover for over 500 years.” He gives a sad sort of half smile.

“Why?” is the only thing Erestor can think to say, even though it’s probably the wrong thing.

Glorfindel shrugs. “It seemed… pointless, after. Loving someone when something like… something like that happened. It took me a long time to stop having nightmares, and even longer to come to terms with it. By that time I was used to being, well, not _alone—_ I had friends—but chaste. For a long time Egalmoth and Ecthelion and others at court gave me all the love and companionship I needed, and living here in Gondolin means you come to know most everyone here, or at least their reputation. I wasn’t interested in anyone. At least,” he reaches out, takes a strand of Erestor’s wet hair in his fingers. “At least until I saw _you._ ”

And Erestor just looks at him, incredulous. “How—” he says, a bright pain blooming behind his eyes. “How do you just _say_ things like that?”

Glorfindel doesn’t answer, doesn’t ask Erestor to say anything in return, but simply leans over and presses him back against the headboard. “Can I ride you?” he asks, slinging his leg over Erestor’s hips to straddle him.

Erestor leans his forehead against the center of Glorfindel’s chest and gives a sigh. “I think you should know by now that you can do anything you want with me,” he mumbles into Glorfindel’s skin.

Glorfindel’s chuckle vibrates through his chest. “Hmm, is that so? Here, help me out.” And he takes Erestor’s hand and presses the bottle of oil into it, leading Erestor’s fingers down to cup his ass.

So Erestor indulges him and coats his fingers in the sweet-smelling oil, slipping down to press the tip of his finger inside. Glorfindel rocks back into it, opening slow and sweet. Erestor can feel Glorfindel’s breath on his collarbone, his cock filling against Erestor’s, the two of them hot on his belly.

And this is different, somehow, than before. Before was a continuation of the promise he made in the garden, but this is the beginning of something else. There’s a deep cavern opening up in Erestor’s chest, some needy mouth inside him that begs to be filled. He starts to feel strange around the edges, like some metamorphosis is happening to his body without his consent. Glorfindel’s drooping over his shoulders, gasping and begging by turns _Erestor, oh, like that, you’re so perfect, so, so good for me—_ Erestor pumps his fingers inside Glorfindel slowly, pressing down hard enough to hear Glorfindel lose his breath in his throat.

“Erestor—I’m ready, please—” he pants, his hand grasping at Erestor’s shoulders, his hair.

“You absolutely are not, calm down.” Erestor only has two fingers scissoring inside but Glorfindel writhes on them like a wanton.

Glorfindel _growls_ and shoves him back anyway, pausing only to slick Erestor’s cock with oil before arching above him, the crown of Erestor’s cock teasing close.

“Glorfindel, _stop,_ I don’t want to hurt you—” Erestor pushes back but Glorfindel gives him this _wicked_ grin and presses close.

Then, with one sharp breath he slides down and just _takes_ it, all in one smooth movement—enveloping Erestor in that inelegant _heat—_ and if he feels any pain he doesn’t show it, an incandescent smile stretching his mouth wide as he throws his head back and _rides,_ his hips rolling up and back like waves on the shore.

And Erestor crumbles beneath him, fingers digging bruises into Glorfindel’s thighs as his peak chases him down fast, too fast. He arches up, mouthing at the salt of Glorfindel’s neck, the dip in his collarbones, the tip of a dusky dark nipple. Glorfindel _sings_ with it, the laving of Erestor’s tongue drawing a high, desperate whimper from his throat. When Erestor sucks a bruise around his nipple Glorfindel’s hips jerk forward and he _yelps,_ eyes blown wide _do that again oh gods please—_ Erestor can feel the way Glorfindel clenches around him in that tight, perfect heat and he bites down hard on Glorfindel’s neck—a wolf’s jaw around a rabbit’s throat—

“Erestor, please please please—” Glorfindel grinds down, his eyes glassy. “I can’t—I—” Erestor has enough of his senses left to pump Glorfindel’s cock, brutally hard, and it isn’t long before Glorfindel’s gasping out his release and painting Erestor’s chest with streaks of come. Erestor follows a few short thrusts later, hissing with his eyes shut tight.

Glorfindel drops down on Erestor’s chest, his lungs like a bellows gulping in air. His damp hair falls everywhere, burying Erestor. For a few moments they lie like that, still joined, breathing hard.

Erestor’s the first to move, wiping his sticky hand on Glorfindel’s back. “We just got clean,” he grumbles, wincing as his cock slips out of Glorfindel’s ass with a slight squelch.

“Gimme a moment,” Glorfindel slurs. “I’ll get s’mthing.” He tumbles over Erestor and off the bed, staggering on faun’s legs to a small closet. When he returns it’s with a washcloth, which he dips in a pitcher of water sitting on the bedside table.

Erestor lets him clean the tacky come off his chest, only complaining slightly at the cold. Glorfindel cleans himself off as well before tossing the cloth away and snuggling back up in bed. He curls close, threading those long legs with Erestor’s and draping his arms over him like a cat. If Erestor had to guess, he would say that _this_ is Glorfindel’s favorite part of lovemaking—the afterglow.

Erestor turns to him. The flush is receding from Glorfindel’s cheeks, but his lips are still bitten plush and red. Such a far cry from the stern face he had when Erestor encountered him in the street—this looks better on him, all pleasure and contentment and _fondness_. “Tell me more about _flowers,_ Glorfindel,” Erestor says, and he’s not talking about flowers at all.

Glorfindel smiles and settles down close. Glorfindel’s fingers trace the edges of Erestor’s ribs, running down into the soft dip of his belly and up to the small peaks of his nipples. Against his calves Erestor can feel the way his toes curl, muscles flexing. Then, with a voice as soft as twilight, he begins.

He tells Erestor about the flowers in Aman growing outside his window as a child, indigo blue and gold, the flowers for which he was named. The flowers blooming on Telperion and Laurelin, the light of creation seeping from the dew sparkling on their branches, the ecstasy of catching that electric water on his tongue. The flowers his mother wove in her hair, purple as blood—and the flowers floating in the wine-red sea of Alqualondë, tossed in by the terrible waves of Ulmo. The flowers his father pressed into his hand before he left forever. The flowers Turgon drew in the snow after the search party returned without Elenwë, blown away even as his finger traced the design. The flowers he found growing in swaths before the city of Gondolin was even built, the thickest of which grew on the northern slopes.

And Erestor drinks it in, watching Glorfindel open his chest to him. All his little thoughts, his loves, his hopes and sorrows—Erestor wades in, enveloped. This warm, accessible brilliance. His low voice drips like honey from his mouth. Erestor listens, enraptured, not even daring to dip down for a kiss lest Glorfindel stop.

He feels a desperate thought pierce his heart. It is never going to get better than this—lying in bed with Glorfindel in his arms. He will never be this happy again, not if Glorfindel leaves him.

Something is growing in the depths of his chest. It’s too soon, they’ve only known each other a matter of hours, but how can Erestor refuse the gift he’s been given? To know Glorfindel is to love him. Erestor shudders.

Glorfindel’s voice winds down and grows silent. Erestor waits, breath stalled in his throat.

“And will you tell me of flowers, my dove?” Glorfindel breaks the silence, stretching his body flush against Erestor. His eyes are a fathomless blue. “Or must I wait until you trust me fully?”

Erestor blinks. “I—” he begins. “I trust you.”

Glorfindel waits.

Erestor holds his breath until he can’t stand it anymore and sighs, a whoosh out of his lungs. “And how would you feel,” he murmurs. “If all the stars came to your door to woo you? How could you look at their light without your finite eyes going blind?”

Glorfindel kisses his collarbone. “I am not that impressive, Erestor.”

“Oh, but you _are,_ ” Erestor replies, fingertips tracing the curve of his brow. “You are. And I—” he huffs a self-deprecating half-laugh. “I am a little mole who has never seen the light of the stars.”

“Is it so impossible, then, that a star should desire to hear mole-ish thoughts?” Glorfindel tips Erestor’s face to him. “For stars can grow lonely, and desire the warm, soft company of moles and their vast, underground hearts.” His tone and words are light, playful—even if their meaning is not.

It’s a silly thing to say, silly and romantic and poetic, but at the sound of those words Erestor relents. “You can have me, Glorfindel, if you wish.” He whispers. “All of me. But forgive me if it takes a long time for a mole to learn the language of… of flowers.”

“That’s alright,” Glorfindel replies. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside the sun finally gives up the ghost and slips behind the mountains. A blue light drifts through the windows, catching in Glorfindel’s hair and limning it with silver. The birds grow quiet, and a sharp wind gusts over the cliffs and through the window.

“This light suits you,” Glorfindel’s looking at him again with that intense, searching gaze. “It brings out the blue in your hair.”

Erestor blushes and pushes his face into the pillow. “Peace, Glorfindel. You’ll overwhelm me.”

Glorfindel brushes his nose against Erestor’s shoulder. “Do you want to come to dinner with me and my friends tomorrow?”

“By the gods, did you not listen to what I just said?” Erestor groans, helpless. “You say, ‘dinner with me and my friends’ and what you _mean_ is ‘interrogation by the great Lords of the Silver Fountain and Heavenly Arch.’ I won’t _survive._ ”

“No! It’ll be good, I promise!” Glorfindel rolls over, pulling Erestor close. “I’ll keep them in line.”

Erestor shoots him a look. “Dear Golden-Flower, you will _wilt_ before them. You forget I know everyone’s business—I expect Egalmoth will begin with a blustering diversion while Ecthelion sneaks in from behind. _You_ will be so distracted by Egalmoth you won’t even notice what Ecthelion’s up to until he’s dismembered me.”

“I suppose that does sound like them,” Glorfindel relents. “But I want you to meet them. Properly. Please.”

Erestor narrows his eyes. “ _Why_ do you want me to meet them?”

Glorfindel pauses. The blue light fades into purple. “I want you in my life, Erestor. I want you to meet my friends.”

And what can he say to _that?_ He slumps against the pillow, defeated. “Alright. You can take me to dinner.”


	11. Memories: Gondolin

Dinner is a _mistake._

Even though he’s wearing his best robe and _even though_ Glorfindel says he looks beautiful and that everything will be fine, he takes a grand total of two steps into the entryway to greet Egalmoth and Ecthelion before cursing his earlier self for ever agreeing to this. The Lords, standing tall in the doorway, turn on him with two sinister smiles and four glittering, dangerous eyes. He gulps, but keeps his composure. He won’t let _anyone_ cow him, not even the Lords of the Gondolindrim.

Glorfindel’s in casual house clothes but Ecthelion and Egalmoth apparently _planned_ their entrance, the bastards. Ecthelion’s in a wine-deep robe, closely fitted and pricked with star-spangles. A circlet of copper rests on his brow, his long dark hair braided with ribbons. Egalmoth’s a bit less ostentatious but no less intimidating, dressed in his traditional blue with crystal beads sewn in to match the slim crystal circlet. They’ve come arrayed for a feast, and they’re hungry for _Erestor_ —they’re eager to see this pretty young thing Glorfindel’s found, to dissect him and discover what sort of creature he is before lapping up the information like wolves. Erestor can tell it’s a good-natured sort of ritual, a brotherly ribbing for Glorfindel while also a testing ground for his new lover. It’s because they hold Glorfindel in such high esteem—they want to test the mettle of whomever he chooses to share his bed with, to see if he’s worthy.

Erestor sets his shoulders back and pushes his hackles back down. Three can play at this game.

“So ‘Findel!” Egalmoth is the first to step forward. “This is the famed Erestor! Greetings, I am Egalmoth of the House of the Heavenly Arch.” He gives a light, polite bow to Erestor. Surprising, given his station—Erestor appreciates the gesture. “It’s good to meet you at last.”

Erestor bows in return. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, my Lord. I am Erestor, seneschal to the House of the Mole.”

“So we’ve heard!” Ecthelion steps up to join him. “I am Ecthelion of the House of the Silver Fountain. It’s good to meet you, Erestor.”

Egalmoth’s circling back around to Glorfindel, as predicted. He’s not as crude as Salgant to outright comment on Erestor’s looks, but Erestor catches him giving a meaningful look to Glorfindel, who turns pink at the ears.

Erestor keeps his attention on Ecthelion. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, my Lord.”

Ecthelion smiles, careful. “Come now, Erestor,” he offers his elbow and Erestor takes it, smooth as silk. “Glorfindel, lead on to dinner. I’m starving.” He orders, and begins walking away down the hall.

Glorfindel hurries to catch up from where Egalmoth has him caged, leading them away into the house. But instead of turning into the large dining room at the end of the hall he continues on to the small, cozy breakfast nook nestled up against the kitchens. Erestor smiles, knowing Glorfindel’s doing this on purpose. There are no Lords and no low-borns when you all sit at a scuffed wooden table.

Out of the corner of his eye Erestor catches Ecthelion watching him. He noticed the table choice too, and he smiles. “The games we play, hm?” He leans to whisper in Erestor’s ear.

“Indeed, my Lord,” Erestor replies. Their game itself is far from over, but the only one who seems to be winning is Glorfindel.

They settle down in the booth, Erestor squished up in the middle between Glorfindel and Ecthelion. Glorfindel’s cook serves them bowls of a thick soup of squash and harvest vegetables with rich, brown bread slathered in honey-butter. Glorfindel dips his bread in his soup, betraying his terrible manners and Erestor can’t help but smile, at least until he notices the two hawk grins across the table.

“I’m afraid, Erestor, that we actually do have to talk business,” Egalmoth says, leaning back against the worn velvet cushions. “Please forgive our rudeness.”

Ecthelion wipes his mouth. “Ah, yes. Report time. Glorfindel, anything?”

Glorfindel shrugs. “No.”

“Busy with important household duties, I assume?” Egalmoth sips his wine, innocent as a lamb.

Glorfindel refuses to rise to the bait. “Anything on your end?”

Erestor keeps quiet and watches. He knows that in truth, this is simply another dinner between friends, but there’s something magical about being invited to the Lord’s table as… an equal? Maybe something like that. He laughs a little to himself—Glorfindel has lived too long to even think about station and nobility anymore. This moment is probably only special to Erestor himself, too young to grow beyond such petty concerns. Still, he feels honored. Even this, the careful poking and prodding from Egalmoth and Ecthelion, this too feels like an honor. Ecthelion keeps giving him little side-long looks, saying things like _isn’t Glorfindel ridiculous? I don’t know how you tolerate it._ Egalmoth has a smile playing at the edges of his mouth, mischievous and delighted at once.

All at once Erestor realizes they’ve been hoping for this. For Glorfindel to find someone—a companion, a lover. Erestor’s strung high on nervousness, but now there’s something of surprise—to be the object of such hope.

Ecthelion sighs, turning to Glorfindel. “Nothing. All quiet. Tuor and Rog just set out this morning on their extended patrol, Salgant’s keeping things subdued at court—at least as much as he’s able—and Maeglin just finished his inspection of the wall. Nothing new.”

Egalmoth smiles. “Enough of that, now on to the real discussion, which is, of course, when is Rog going to stop mooning after Voronwë and _fuck_ him already?”

Ecthelion rolls his eyes. “I hope it’s soon, he’s been insufferable lately.”

And so the conversation opens—gossip is accessible to all people.

Erestor frowns around the lip of his glass. “Rog’s not sleeping with Voronwë.”

“We _know,_ that’s the _problem,_ ” Egalmoth grumbles.

Erestor takes a sip of wine, debating whether or not to reveal his thoughts. He decides it’s worth it to gain their trust. “Rog’s not sleeping with Voronwë because Tuor and Idril are sleeping with Voronwë. Rog’s sleeping with Elemmakil.”

Egalmoth chokes. “They’re—he’s _what?!”_

Glorfindel chuckles. “I told you, my suspicions are correct. Though I wasn’t expecting Idril to get in on it.”

Ecthelion gives Erestor a long, lean look. “How do you _know?_ ”

Erestor shrugs. “It’s my job to know these things. Sleeping arrangements are difficult enough as they are when guests arrive without stepping on everyone’s toes.”

“Yes but _how?_ My own steward is deep in with the court and not even she could tell me.” Ecthelion leans over the table.

“If I gave away trade secrets to every elf who asked I wouldn’t be very good at my job, now would I?” Erestor allows himself a very small smile.

Egalmoth crowds in on Ecthelion’s other side, the two of them like crows circling a particularly confusing… well, mole. “On my honor as a Lord of the Gondolindrim, I will not tell a soul your secrets. Now, how do you know?”

Erestor glances at Ecthelion. “I second that,” Ecthelion says.

“Very well then.” Erestor sets down his glass. “Your seneschal doesn’t know because they haven’t told anyone. Not Turgon, not the Gondolindrim, not the housekeeper, not the baker, no one. I guessed with Voronwë because of what he wears— he has a blue cloak stitched in gold that he only dons when Tuor’s on patrol. The stitching is very faint, but it is in the shape of a wing. He also wears a particular pair of sapphire earrings, which he never takes off. They’re not particularly expensive on their own, but there are no sapphires in this part of the world, and none of that color on this continent.” Ecthelion and Egalmoth stare at him, wide-eyed. “However,” Erestor continues, “Turgon wears many sapphires of that color, mostly on necklaces where they can rest over his heart. Those earrings belonged to Elenwë, before they passed to Idril and she gave them to Voronwë. They’re not just fucking, they’re _in love._ Besides, have you seen how Eärendil treats him? He calls him “Ada.” As for Rog, I’ve known he and Elemmakil have been together far longer than I have been seneschal. They like to meet out in the rolling hills near the mines and go swimming. You only think he’s after Voronwë because Tuor refuses to switch their patrol schedules, and Rog thinks he can get Voronwë to convince him.”

Glorfindel’s got his hand on Erestor’s knee, and when Erestor glances over he’s got a look that is both smug and incredibly fond. “So you see?” he says to his slack-jawed friends. “Easy as that.”

Egalmoth leans back in his seat. “Well done, Erestor. Well done indeed.”

He can’t help it—his ears go pink with the praise.

Ecthelion lets a slow, wide smile stretch his mouth. “I don’t know what fate it was that kept you from court so long but I see now it was a blessing—none of our secrets are safe! Maeglin must have a sharp eye indeed to find someone such as you for his House. And _you,_ Glorfindel—”

Glorfindel holds up his hands. “I never had secrets in the first place.”

“I was going to say you’re a lucky bastard, but that’s true as well. I suppose your lack of secrets is a moot point now— Erestor would have discovered them even if you had any.” Ecthelion nudges Erestor with his shoulder.

And was that it? Was that all it took to be accepted—a sharp eye and the knowledge of a few secrets?

No. For a moment Erestor’s vision shifts, and he sees things how he imagines these three see him— a perceptive little mole, yes, but something else. Something beyond secret-telling, maybe something like thoughtfulness. Something Ecthelion would call contentiousness, and Glorfindel would call kindness.

Whatever it is, they have opened their great bird-wings and welcomed him in.

Erestor smiles to himself, and sips a spoonful of soup.

The conversation flows down like a river, gurgling with laughter and the brightness of friends, both the old and now, the new. Erestor finds himself relaxing in their presence, leaning lightly against Glorfindel’s shoulder. Glorfindel hums, and keeps his hand twined with Erestor’s under the table. Ecthelion and Egalmoth both prove to be delightful company, every bit the noble hearts they’re rumored to be. Egalmoth is perhaps the brasher of the two, but Ecthelion is more concentrated, more intense. They both look at Glorfindel like he’s their younger brother, protective and fond like big red-tailed hawks around their adopted kestrel. Erestor, who does not keep much company, finds himself charmed and flattered—if Glorfindel keeps company with luminaries such as these, then what does that say about him?

“What are you doing for the Festival tomorrow?” Ecthelion turns away from needling Egalmoth to ask Glorfindel.

“The festival?” Glorfindel blinks.

“Yes, you scatterbrain. The ‘Gates of Summer close, the Halls of Autumn open,’ the most important day of the year, that Festival.” Ecthelion turns to Erestor. “I’m sure _you_ have something planned for it.”

Erestor shrugs. “My Lord isn’t much for festivals in his House. He’s spending it with his family at the Royal House.”

Egalmoth grins. “So you can slip away and spend it with us?”

How are they so quick to friendship? How? Erestor shakes his head. “I actually do have work to do, you know.”

Egalmoth lets it drop with an exaggerated sigh, but he and Ecthelion both make an effort to include Erestor in the continuing conversation. They ask him questions about his life in the mines, how he came to be with Maeglin, how he likes it in Gondolin. They don’t ask about Maeglin himself, for which Erestor is grateful—his master likes his privacy. Erestor in return asks about life before Gondolin, the one piece of information he doesn’t have access to. By the time the cook brings out an apple tart for dessert, Erestor has Egalmoth in tears and Ecthelion red in the face with a story he heard about the Lord of the Silver Fountain’s first excursion to Maeglin’s mines.

Glorfindel hides his laughter in Erestor’s shoulder, sneaking a kiss under his ear, and Erestor has that feeling again, that blood thorn-prick of knowledge—it’s never going to get better than this, it’s never going—

The front door slams open.

Glorfindel starts, standing and looking around the corner. “Hello?” he calls, worry lining his brow.

A messenger, covered in fine white dust, sprints to the alcove. She gulps at air like a beached fish, managing, “My Lords—the city—”

Glorfindel grasps her shoulders, holds her upright. “The city?”

Egalmoth and Ecthelion rise next to him.

Tears stream down her face. “Morgoth—we’ve been _found—”_

For a half second the four of them freeze, the gaping sound of the messenger’s sobs cracking through the hall.

Erestor feels all the blood drain from his face.

The messenger collapses to the floor. Glorfindel takes a glass of water from the table and holds it to her lips, which are rimmed with blood.

As one Egalmoth and Ecthelion turn to Erestor and Glorfindel.

“We must go.” Egalmoth says, voice tight. He places a hand on Erestor’s shoulder, and Ecthelion mirrors him. “Stay safe, Erestor. May it be that we see each other again.”

Then Egalmoth and Ecthelion are out the door, calling, “Glorfindel—We’ll see you on the walls!”

Erestor stares, dumb, as Glorfindel helps the messenger to lie down on one of the nook’s benches.

Glorfindel rises, takes him by the wrist. “With me.” And he drags him down the hallway, shouting orders to his trembling House-members standing on the fringes.

Erestor follows, stumbling, as Glorfindel leads him back to his personal wing, back to the silence of the closet.

Glorfindel slams the door shut and whirls on him, his eyes wide and red-rimmed—“ _Erestor—”_ and he hauls Erestor up into his arms, his mouth frantic on Erestor’s mouth— _oh no oh no oh no no no no no_

Erestor clings to him, horrifying reality rising over his mind like a dark, burning wave—Glorfindel’s brightness is the only thing holding it at bay—

“Glorfindel—” he jerks back, whimpering. He needs to go home to Maeglin, he needs to _stay here with Glorfindel_ “I need to—I—”

“Hush, I know.” Glorfindel buries his hands in Erestor’s hair, desperate and tight. “I know, I know. Listen Erestor—” He has this horrible, hopeless look on his face, his eyes diamond-bright, too open—

Erestor nods, his arms clenched around Glorfindel’s waist. _Don’t make me let go don’t make me—_

Outside a crash, a deep rumble. People start screaming outside the open window.

“Listen to me.” Glorfindel brushes Erestor’s cheekbones with his thumbs, light on the tender, thin skin under his eyes. “I—I do not know what is going to happen. There is not much hope. You—you must go back, go to Maeglin, he’ll keep you safe—but listen, if Gondolin falls,” _if Gondolin falls?_ “If you need to get out of the city, then there is a secret way. Idril built a tunnel into the rock just west of here, near Ecthelion’s fountain. Look for the sign of the wing, there will be a way there—Erestor, look for it, promise me—” Glorfindel’s voice shakes and he pulls Erestor’s face up to kiss his mouth, kiss the tears from his cheek.

Erestor gasps into his mouth, _don’t leave me don’t—_

“Hush, my love, my darling, hush.” Glorfindel clasps him close. “I will come to you,” he whispers to Erestor’s hair. “As soon as I can. I _will_ return to you, my love, Erestor—” He squeezes tight, mouth bitter and sharp on Erestor’s mouth for one second, two—then he wrenches away, away to the swords lining his wall, to the armor still scattered on the floor from yesterday.

Erestor stands, wavering, then— “ _Glorfindel!”_

Glorfindel turns.

“I’ll watch for you,” Erestor says, his throat tight. “Whatever happens. Just return to me—” his voice cracks. “My—my heart, my light.”

Glorfindel nods, tears breaking down his face.

And that’s the last thing he sees, Glorfindel wiping his eyes and picking himself up to go to war before Erestor turns and sprints down the wing, through the hallways and past the collapsed messenger out the door, out the door into the street.

And, and—

And he looks to the north wall, there is a great groaning wail coming from the wall, the red light of a thousand fires burning up like sunset, like blood in the sky—people run through the streets, run to their Houses to find shelter and safety, everyone is _screaming—_ and there is something long and sickly purple climbing up over the wall and it opens its mouth and there is a high whistle, like a bird dying, and it retches a stream of fine, thin fire over the battlements and into the crowd below.

Erestor watches, frozen for a few brief moments, before turning away, leaping down the avenue and into the crowd, his robe spilling out behind him.

The screaming rises fever-hot, striking hot in the street and in the echoing arches of the fountains—glass shatters around the crowd of people trying to find shelter and already there are people on fire, stumbling to the fountains and there is a _dead body,_ someone wearing Rog’s colors who has slit her own throat—

Erestor puts his head down and _runs._

The House of the Mole _teems_ with soldiers, with more soldiers than Erestor has ever seen at his house, all arrayed in dark steel and pitch-colored banners. Erestor threads his way through the throng, searching for his master in the sea of unfamiliar faces _where had all these people come from?_

He finds Maeglin standing in the middle of his armory, an elf he doesn’t know buckling on the final straps of his breastplate. Around him other swirl, sharpening spears with a sick _schlick schliiiiiik,_ their faces grim and their eyes alight with—what is shining in their eyes, what is happening here—

“My Lord!” Erestor calls, coming to stand before him.

Maeglin turns to him and smiles. “Ah, Erestor. Did you enjoy your time at the House of the Golden Flower?”

Erestor startles—it’s such an odd thing to ask. “What do you require of me, my Lord?”

“Oh, I think you’ve done quite enough, thank you.” Maeglin nods. The unknown elf clasps his cloak around his shoulders and stands to the side, waiting. Maeglin gestures to him. “Take half and circle around to the House of the Pillar, but don’t attack until my word arrives. If we can hold the fountain we’ll be able to take the Royal House—and remember, if anyone comes upon _any_ member of the Royal Family, they are to be taken _alive._ If this order is disobeyed then I will disembowel the offender _myself._ ”

The world shrinks to a single thread, then snaps. “My—my Lord?” Erestor whispers. “What do you _mean?_ ”

And when Maeglin turns back to him Erestor doesn’t know his face anymore. His smile claws over his features, more bared teeth than joy and his eyes are wrong somehow, deeply _wrong—_ Where is the Lord who looked on him in fondness? Who is this—

And Maeglin snaps forward with one iron hand, grasps Erestor by the throat, and pins him to the wall.

And Erestor can only let him, can only scrabble weakly for the thin strand of air Maeglin allows him, his legs buckling—

Maeglin presses close. “You never told me, Erestor,” he purrs. “Did you enjoy yourself at the House of the Golden Flower?”

Erestor whimpers— _what do you mean what’s going on—_

“I never thanked you properly, for keeping dear Lord Glorfindel so occupied.” His smile twists. “Awfully convenient for me. Did you know, I had originally intended you for Salgant?” Maeglin lifts his other hand to trace down the side of Erestor’s face, to rub his thumb against the bruise Glorfindel left behind his ear earlier this morning.

Erestor lurches back but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to escape— his hands scrape at Maeglin’s arms, his breastplate but it’s no use—

Maeglin’s voice drops low, tender. “You were such a find, down in those mines. Such a pretty thing, buried away. You were too good to be true—attractive and innocent enough that when people looked at me they saw _you,_ your influence. The seneschal is the face of the House and you, my lovely one, make me look tender and sweet, pure as a dove. Of course, others in the mine knew you differently, didn’t they? And, of course, Salgant needed convincing, so what better way to seduce him over to my way of thinking than to give him a _present—_ Two goals accomplished in one. But then, of course, a much bigger fish arrived and took my bait.”

A high whine chokes Erestor’s throat and he can’t breathe, he can’t— _what is he talking about—_

Around them soldiers ready for war, faceless elves he’s never met before drawing their swords and Maeglin just _keeps talking,_ licking his cracked lips even as his words foam at the edges of his mouth. “Glorfindel was never going to join, no, but _keeping him distracted,_ yes, that I could do, and if Glorfindel was blind then Ecthelion and Egalmoth would become blind too—a fourth of the Gondolindrim blinded by a pretty elf with an _easy reputation_. Blind to what was under their feet this whole time, blind to the danger creeping over the mountains, blind to _me,_ to what I _am—_ and all I had to do was blind _you,_ toss you a few crumbs of praise and you were _utterly devoted,_ Erestor—” Words spill out of him like he can’t help himself, like he’s bleeding from his throat—

Erestor _keens,_ struggling against that stranglehold, gaping for air, _no no no it’s not true no what have I done no_

“Hush Erestor,” Maeglin loosens his grip by a fraction. “Don’t hurt yourself, my pet. You’ve done so well. You’ve done so well for me.” He tucks Erestor’s hair back behind his ear, caressing. “I can’t thank you enough. You were so good. You were just what I needed.”

Erestor looks full into that face and something cracks. Maeglin’s overrun now, his eyes red-rimmed and there’s something like a black thread, thin as a spider’s leg, branching up his skin over the collar of his tunic.

“Just what I needed,” he repeats, whispering. Then he leans forward and kisses the corner of Erestor’s mouth. “You were so good to me. Thank you, Erestor.”

Erestor trembles, sobs caught under Maeglin’s fist.

The crack in his face repairs itself. Maeglin smirks. “Now my pretty pet, if you’re _extra_ good I’ll give you a treat—I’ll give you to Salgant after all, but only if you’re well-behaved. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before yanking Erestor away from the wall, removing his grip on Erestor’s throat and tangling it up in his hair instead. He hauls Erestor deeper into the depths of the armory, away to the back storeroom. Erestor digs his heels in, desperate, but Maeglin’s grip is strong and when Erestor falls to his knees he doesn’t care, he keeps pulling until Erestor feels like he’s going to pull his skin off— _no no no—_ and Maeglin just drags his body along the floor to the back room.

The inside of the storeroom has been transformed—all the heirlooms and treasures of the House of the Mole are stacked on sturdy shelves, safe and protected by thick stone. A barred window, high on the far wall, is the only opening to the city. Maeglin pulls him to an empty wall and it’s only then that Erestor notices the line of chained collars bolted to the stone.

“ _No,_ my Lord, _no—”_ Erestor yanks back, his hair tearing, and reaches for the doorway but Maeglin overpowers him and jerks him over to the chains.

“Hush Erestor, this is for your own good.” He locks a heavy iron collar around Erestor’s neck with a _click!_ It’s tight and cold, Erestor can’t breathe—“You’ll be safe here. After I have control of the city I’ll come back for you.”

Then he stands and steps away, out of Erestor’s reach, and walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Maeglin. I'm so sorry.


	12. Memories: Gondolin

Erestor doesn’t remember much of the first day, only that he was delirious with fear.

The sounds of war echo through the little window, magnified by the stone of the storeroom—his racing pulse beats up against the iron collar, so loud, too loud, he’s worn his fingernails down to the quick tearing at this collar, at the stone walls, the floors—

The screaming doesn’t die down, only, after awhile, it cuts ragged and hoarse. The crunch of steel and the waves of voices get closer, then recede, chased off by something _(some_ things, _there are more of them)_ that howl, that pant and lap up the blood, things that scrape at the window with their claws, smelling. Someone dies in front of the little window and blocks the light, leaving Erestor with only the echoing sound of his breathing in the locked room, the feeling of blood beginning to bead up from his raw neck. He would rip strips of fabric from his robe to stop the bleeding, but the sound of tearing fabric _hurts_ him, somehow.

He is going mad. He is going to break in half and all the things inside him are going to spill out like an egg yolk on the ground and he’s not going to die, no, that’s too good for him how could he not have known, how could he have not seen through Maeglin he should have known he should have said something he should have known how could he have been so _blind_ —

_Such a pretty thing such a pretty present you’ve done so well you were so good_

_Glorfindel no no no_

Blood drips down from the window and seeps into his robes and hair.

_What have I done by the gods what have I done_

Sometime the next morning a guard opens the door to toss Erestor some bread and a skin of water before leaving him alone again.

He doesn’t return. No one returns.

Days pass, maybe weeks.

Erestor wastes away, only barely managing to keep himself together by rubbing one of the other collars against the chain bolting him to the wall, filing down the links.

_Get out get out find Glorfindel get out I’m sorry—what have I done I should have known what have I done— I’m sorry—_

Then the space outside the window goes completely quiet, like someone sucked all the air out of the whole world and _then_ there is the _sound_ , the sound like rock cracking and popping, a sound like footprints, and the body outside the window dissolves into charcoal and the stone becomes unbearably hot and the chains, the collar around his neck _burns_ and he jerks back, watching the iron closest to the wall turn _pink_ and he chokes, scrambling away from the wall, the iron—

And something _laughs,_ a laugh like a whip crack—

And Erestor _screams,_ scrambling back—the weakened links, now hot, _(so hot too hot I am going to burn alive)_ snap open and Erestor throws himself into the far corner, treasure and gold falling around him from the overturned shelves and something _reaches_ through the window, it has hands, huge cracked hands like logs on fire and it _rips_ the stone away, it is laughing, _laughing—_

 _Come here, little mole,_ it says. _Come here, you tasty, pretty thing._

Something drips through the window and sizzles on the ground, it is _drooling_ it is _hungry_ and Erestor closes his eyes.

_Glorfindel—_

There is a scream from outside.

And, as quickly as it arrived, the balrog turns away, its attention drawn elsewhere.

Erestor lies limp in the wreckage of the storeroom for what seems like days before realizing that there is now a hole in the wall, big enough to fit through.

He blinks.

Then he hauls himself up and _launches_ himself at the window, clawing, the length of chain still attached to his throat catching on the twisted metal bars but he grits his teeth and _pulls,_ pulls _up,_ and then he is out, out in the street—

The city is in ruins.

The tower of the Royal House is split, half crumbled away and smoking like a chimney. Rubble strewn over the street rises like small mountains, crushing buildings and carts and _people,_ he can see limbs and naked bones jutting out at odd angles beneath wooden beams and stained stones. Most of the other houses are destroyed as well—not even the House of the Mole has been spared, the great black banners stripped from their spires.

Erestor can guess at Maeglin’s fate.

The street is mostly empty, the fighting carrying on further away. He sees the balrog hunched over a few blocks away, as big as a house, crunching down with jagged teeth on a small, mangled form.

Erestor flees.

_West of here, the sign of the wing, the sign—_

He curls the length of chain from his neck around his hand to keep it from dragging behind and _runs,_ runs past the crumbling houses, past the dead strewn in the street to the west side of the city, past the center circles where the battle still rages thick. He pauses only to dunk his head in a fountain, gulping down filthy water like a dog. He retches, the first swallows burning back up his throat, but he keeps the next few down well enough.

No one stops his progress. He sees orcs in the distance, the snaking tail of a dragon curling around a corner, but is able to avoid them. Morgoth’s forces must be nearly done gutting the city—already carrion birds line the avenues, enjoying their meals in peace.

He searches for the wing but also for that _hair,_ his eyes snagging over the dead for any sign of that beautiful golden hair underneath the blood and gore. He doesn’t know whether or not he should look, if his heart will be able to take it should he find Glorfindel—find him _dead,_ but he can’t stop.

None of the bodies he sees have that shade of golden hair, _(praise the gods)_ at least not yet. He doesn’t think of hope, can’t allow himself to think of hope— at least _not yet—_

And if he finds him alive? What will Glorfindel think of him then—Maeglin’s _pretty pet?_ What will he think when he knows what Erestor’s blindness and ignorance has wrought upon their city?

Erestor clenches his jaw. Glorfindel deserves to know.

And— and Erestor won’t protest when he leaves, won’t say anything in his defense when Glorfindel tells him that he hates the sight of him.

And he’ll be _thankful_ for it, thankful to see Glorfindel walk away from him hale and whole and _alive,_ he’ll spend the rest of his life on his knees in praise and thanks to whatever powers allowed Glorfindel to _live._

The chains bite into his hand and he doesn’t care.

The sign of the wing appears over an open door tucked into the corner of a back alley, invisible to any who weren’t actively looking for it. He ducks inside what looks to be an ordinary storeroom save for the thin archway in the back, leading to a tunnel cutting deep in the mountains.

The tunnel is deep and dark. There is no light in the tunnel, none save the dim greyness of the storeroom petering out in the gloom.

But Erestor knows enough of mines to know the air is clear, and that the movement of the breeze coming from the tunnel means that it is open and solid. He places the hand not holding his chain on the wall and steps forward.

The floor is smooth and sure. Erestor counts his steps, old habits keeping his mind from falling into the darkness of the tunnel. The sounds of the city fade away behind him, and for the first time since he sat at the table with Glorfindel and Ecthelion and Egalmoth he feels a sputtering spark of hope, blinking out beneath the weight of everything.

He stumbles over something soft, yielding. He leans down and feels the outline of a face, of a body. It _(him?)_ is already cold, the blood at its waist tacky. Someone, at least, has been down this way.

Erestor steps over the body and moves on.

By his count he’s walked a few leagues or so when the blackness of the tunnel hints grey. He slows his steps, unsure. In the tunnel it would be easy to know of anyone’s approach, to hear the echo of footsteps and breathing. Now, in the open—there would be no warning.

He clenches his hand around the chain and pushes forward.

The tunnel opens up at the foot of a gorge, a steep trail cut in the cliffs leading up and away over the mountains, curling back and forth along the side of the gorge.

And _there—_ if he looks up through the mists lining the peaks— a flash of blue, of gold.

His breath freezes in his throat. A band of a hundred elves, maybe more, string out along the path. They cling close to the rock, inching forward like a caterpillar to freedom. They look so fragile, like a wisp of silk floating in the breeze, like anything could come and snatch them from the air.

His heart leaps— _some_ people made it, there is yet hope.

Still, he hesitates. News of Maeglin’s treachery would have spread through the city by now. They will know who he is, whom he followed. A chain around his neck won’t endear him to them.

He steps out from the safety of the tunnel. He’ll follow a distance behind, wait to see who yet lives _(Glorfindel, if Glorfindel lives, he needs to know)_ and decide then.

He begins to scale the steep path, cleaving close to the cliff side. If he looks up he can see the fluttering flower-shapes of the elves above, tiny pinpricks of brightness. The wind whips around him, sending his torn robes flapping out over the edge of the path. The iron at his neck burns cold, scraping away his skin. He presses his head down and climbs.

Snatches of sound come to him across the wind, a high crystal sound, like broken glass.

He looks up.

And _oh,_ oh _no—_

A balrog, like a great, smoldering bat, creeps down the side of the cliff towards the clustered refugees. The sound, the sound of screaming, tears by him on the wind. Erestor can see the balrog settle down on the path, can see its thick haunches squat as it surveys its feast. It laughs, its great whip snaking out behind it like a dragon’s tongue, crackling like lightning.

Erestor cowers in the shadow of the cliff, unable to tear his eyes away. They are _doomed—_ and to have come so far and yet face destruction, face the devouring maw of Morgoth—

And _there—_

A tiny figure stands in front of the assembled group, his sword raised high, his shining, _golden_ hair streaming out behind him—

_No no no no—! Glorfindel—no—_

The balrog chuckles and it’s a sound of sick delight, a sound like a mountain crumbling but Glorfindel doesn’t waver, only strides forward with sure feet and purpose and _this,_ this is _worse_ than finding him dead in the street— _watching_ him _die_ , watching— finding him alive only to lose him—

The balrog draws back its whips and Glorfindel darts forward, slicing down. At first it looks like his strike was in vain but no, a bright white line opens in the balrog’s wing, then another in the opposite wing, near the elbow joint. The balrog howls, twisting and failing to catch the streak of gold pricking its hide and Erestor can’t believe what he’s seeing—

One wing hangs limp, scraping on stone. At this distance it looks as small as a sparrow’s wing, Glorfindel’s lithe form no larger than a cricket. Erestor can’t move can’t breathe can’t think, can only _hope—_

The balrog can’t seem to unfurl its whip to its full length with the sheer cliff at its side, allowing Glorfindel to sneak past its defenses. But the mountain pass is a danger and hindrance for Glorfindel too, and even as his feet dance light over the stone there’s only a few feet between him and the cliff.

The balrog snaps its teeth, slashes out with its whip and the electric tip licks up the edge of Glorfindel’s wrist—and Erestor can _hear_ Glorfindel’s cry, reedy and thin and so far away, oceans away— Erestor chokes, waiting for him to trip, to fall—but Glorfindel’s footing stays true, and his sword hand is unharmed. As the balrog rears back for another blow Glorfindel darts up, pierces true—and the balrog’s unbroken wing jerks from its socket to hang useless next to its twin.

The balrog screeches, stumbles back—and its handhold on the mountain’s side crumbles. Glorfindel retreats. The balrog whirls, unbalanced, but its wings fail and it steps back on the path once, twice—and then it steps over open air, over the chasm, and tips backwards.

The battle couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes long but just like that, the balrog is defeated—crippled and doomed to the abyss—

Erestor’s eyes blow wide— _he won, he lives—_ he sucks in a breath, air in his lungs— _by all the gods he lives!_ He can see Glorfindel’s chest heaving, can see him turn back to his people clutching at his ruined arm but he stands tall, true and _alive_ —

And the balrog falls—

And its clawed hand snaps _up—_

And its hand wraps around that long, golden hair and yanks Glorfindel back over the cliff.

They fall together.

Erestor stands against that stone face and watches as they hit the rock once, two times before streaking past and shattering at the bottom of the ravine.

_No— please, no—_

Erestor rushes back down the pass, tripping and scraping over the stone, leaving patches of his blood on the path _no no no—_

Glorfindel lies broken at the foot of the path, his golden hair smoldering beneath him.

Erestor drops heavy to his knees beside him, curling around his body and drawing him up into his lap, hands coming up wet on mangled bone—Glorfindel’s head drops limp over Erestor’s shoulder, his spine splintered by the fall. He keeps twisting at odd angles and Erestor can feel bones grinding up against each other under his hands. _Please, no—_ The strange thing is he’s still warm, almost like he’s just come in from the snow and is snuggled up close to get warm again. But the body loses heat fast, and when Erestor reaches up to close the half-lidded eyes his skin feels like paper, cool and dry.

Everything in the world has gone silent. Everything in the world has lost its voice.

And that _hair—_ Erestor caresses his face, his hand running back into that golden hair and it crumbles under his touch, falling out in charred clumps on the stone.

Erestor bends over that beloved form and weeps.

 

Later, the eagles come to take his body back to his people. They regard him with their cool, sideways glances and their great golden eyes. Erestor stares them down, refusing to let go.

One small, pale eagle, no bigger than a cow, comes and sits next to him.

“You love him,” she says, a statement of fact.

Erestor nods, holding Glorfindel closer.

“We must take him.” She continues. Another statement of fact.

Erestor stays still and silent.

She reaches over with her beak and preens back his hair from his face. Then she nuzzles under his chin, her soft feathers smearing with his blood. “We will take good care of him,” she says. “And we will take you with us, if you permit it.”

Erestor doesn’t reply, but he loosens his grip on Glorfindel. Then, carefully, he sets Glorfindel on the ground. He takes off his thick outer robe and wraps Glorfindel’s body in it, his skin shuddering in the sudden cold.

The pale eagle watches him. When he is finished, she nods. “Thank you for watching over him. And thank you for letting us have him.”

A large eagle with sable-tipped wings steps forward and picks Glorfindel up with his delicate claws. Then he takes to the sky, wheeling up to join the group of refugees still huddled at the pinnacle of the pass.

The others join him, save for the pale eagle. “Do you wish to join them?” she asks.

Erestor shakes his head.

“Do you wish me to take you elsewhere?” Her feathers, where they brush up against his skin, are the only things that feel warm anymore.

He nods. Yes, elsewhere. Anywhere but here.


	13. Imladris

Erestor wakes to a blinding headache and a note from Elrond tacked to the door reading: _Take the day off. That’s an order._ There’s a mug of hot water resting on the bedside table with a satchel of herbs soaking inside, no doubt one of Elrond’s pain-relieving teas.

He needs it. Everything _hurts._

Still, he rises, and takes the tea with him into his small shower room. Upon looking in the mirror he can see the scratches, a few scabs scraping over the knotted scar encircling his neck. Nightmares again.

He strips and tosses his crumpled robes in the corner before pulling the lever. Steaming hot water cascades down from the ceiling and he steps in, still holding the mug. The water doesn’t do much for him. Everything is so _cold._

He will need to talk to Glorfindel. Eventually.

The thought brings on another wave of his headache and he leans his forehead against the stone wall.

He had guessed that if the afterlife exists (and, apparently, it does), he would have this conversation eventually. That knowledge was a sharp knife he wrapped up in cloth and placed in the corner of his heart.

And it’s true, isn’t it? He didn’t just dream the whole thing? Glorfindel _lives,_ all his bones knit back together, his eyes lit with life and Erestor can’t help the sob that rises in in throat. This prayer, at least, was answered. The gods brought him back. Glorfindel lives.

But now Glorfindel is _here_ , and he can’t decide if he wishes he had more time or if it’s better to get this over with.

He is so tired.

Erestor sips at the tea, little droplets from the shower splashing in his mug. The scratches at his neck sting. He’ll have to remember to clip his nails tonight.

And, unbidden, Glorfindel’s face rises in his memory. His head thrown back, a smile curling at his lips, _Tell me about flowers, love—_

Erestor shuts his eyes.

Not now. Not yet.


	14. Imladris

Elrond thanks all the gods across the sea for his half-mortal blood. Elven wine packs a punch but something about his mannish heritage means he’s (mostly) good after a few glasses of water and a brisk shower.

Yesterday’s hurts, however, will require more than just some water to wash them away.

He ties his hair up in a messy bun and wraps his tattered old robe around him again, not feeling much energy for anything beyond that. Had it not been for Celebrían he doesn’t think he would have even managed that. Thank the Valar for small mercies.

He pads barefoot through Imladris, noting the subdued air that hangs over his house. Most elves have taken his cue and used yesterday as a personal day of mourning. Elrond doesn’t think he’ll see many venture out beyond their rooms for awhile yet.

There is a lot to mourn nowadays.

He turns to Erestor’s room, not bothering to knock. The bed is empty and the mug of tea he left earlier is gone, a good sign. The shower room door is closed and the muffled sound of running water gurgles from inside.

He goes to the door and knocks. “Erestor?”

Silence in return.

He taps again. “If you don’t want me to come in, say something.”

Silence again. Elrond opens the door.

Erestor stands hunched under the water, his mug still in his hand. Elrond takes in his drawn shoulders, the deep bruises under his eyes. They’ve long discarded any awkwardness between them about their bodies—the one good result from patching each other’s wounds so often. As a healer Elrond knows Erestor’s body well, what it looks like in health and heart-sickness both. Erestor always loses a little weight before the Anniversary, evidenced in his visible ribs. The way he’s standing now, however, makes him look gaunt, starving. His long hair hangs plastered to his face, only barely hiding the scratch marks at his neck.

He looks to Elrond. “Good morning,” he says, voice rough.

Elrond leans against the doorframe. “Good morning,” he returns. He looks to the scratch marks.

“In my sleep,” Erestor explains.

Elrond nods. “Come by when you’re dressed and I’ll have something for them.”

They stare at each other.

“Tomorrow,” Erestor croaks. “Give me until tomorrow and I’ll talk to him then.”

“You don’t have to talk to him at all if you don’t want to,” Elrond replies.

Erestor shakes his head. “He deserves an explanation.”

Elrond dips his head in return. “As you wish. He’s with Celebrían now, if you want to know.”

Erestor gives a small smile. “They’ll get along well. She’ll be a good comfort for him.” Then he turns away under the water.

“Erestor,” Elrond takes a half-step forward.

Erestor looks back.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Elrond asks, and he reaches out to place a hand on Erestor’s shoulder, heedless of the water.

Erestor is silent for a long time. Elrond waits.

“I was a fool,” he says. “I was a fool and someone I trusted used that to hurt him.” His voice drops away.

Elrond stays quiet. He knows words, superfluous platitudes, will only fail Erestor now.

Erestor looks away. “You should change out of your wet robes. I’ll be by your office soon.”

Elrond nods, then steps back out of the shower room. “If you need anything, Erestor, you know where I am.”

Erestor nods, still huddled away in the water.

Elrond closes the door and leaves Erestor’s rooms, dripping over the tile floors.

He can guess what happened, or the shape of it at least. He only hopes that his dear friend can weather whatever happens next.


	15. Imladris

Glorfindel doesn’t know what, exactly, to think about Celebrían.

He first sees her standing over his new bed, balancing a basket full of breakfast on her large, swollen belly. He hadn’t even noticed he was asleep until he wasn’t, woken by her gentle hand and a smile.

“I was going to call you sleepyhead,” she’d said. “But I feel like some part of your hair must be awake all the time to look like that.”

He lifts his head from his pillow. “Hello?” Did she even knock? “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

She sits on the edge of the bed with a small _oof,_ her hand on her belly _._ “No, I don’t believe we have. I am Celebrían. You will have met my husband, Elrond.”

Glorfindel sit up and bows, at least as well as he is able still tangled in the blankets. “It’s good to meet you. I am Glorfindel.”

“So I’ve heard! Here, take this, you look like you could use it.” She hands him a light pastry from her basket, filled with strawberry jam and glazed with honey.

He takes it, slightly bewildered. “Thank you?”

She laughs. “You’re welcome.”

Glorfindel doesn’t know what to do so he takes a bite of the pastry. It’s sweet, but it seems like its taste comes to him from very far away. He doesn’t really have the heart for food right now.

Celebrían places a soft hand on his leg. “I hear you had a rather difficult time in coming here, and that the arrival itself proved to be worse than the journey.”

He nods, slowly chewing the lump of pastry.

“This may be rather awkward, seeing as we just met, but Erestor is a dear friend of mine and I would like to be your friend too. Perhaps in another world we could have gotten to know each other slowly, like a normal friendship, but the Valar have tossed you into this world confused and alone and it seems to me that you are in desperate need of companionship and comfort.” She has these opal-grey eyes, wide and earnest. Glorfindel doesn’t know whom to trust, but he somehow feels that he could do worse than to trust her.

“Alright,” he replies.

Her answering smile is as bright as the morning sun cutting through his curtains. “Good. Here, I brought you a gift.” She reaches over into the basket and pulls out a long, dark-blue robe spangled with stars. It’s a casual robe, nothing like the elegant things of Gondolin, but it’s finely made and the stitching is delicate and intricate.

She hands it to him. “This used to belong to Gil-galad. He’s a little taller than you but you look about the same in the shoulders.”

Glorfindel looks up at her, not asking _isn’t he dead?_

She answers his question anyway. “It had been moldering away in the back of the closet since, well, since then. It’ll be good for it to have use again.”

He dips his head. “You honor me.”

“Good. That was the intent. Here, let’s get you up and ready and then I’ll show you the rest of Imladris.” She rises and sets the basket of breakfast on his side table, giving him a meaningful look over it. _Eat up, thin one,_ her looks says. Given over her pregnant belly it has the air of motherly command—somehow more intimidating than military command. She leaves the basket behind and waddles over to a side door. “Have you discovered the shower room yet?”

He pulls back the covers and follows her. A shower room? Oh! He looks around the door to see a familiar set-up, if much smaller than the one he remembers. A drain in the floor under a skylight and a bench to the side holding towels and soap.

She looks sideways at him, and again answers the question he’s not asking. “Erestor’s idea. He was involved in the designing and building of Imladris and thought to include these clever little contraptions.”

Glorfindel leans against the doorframe, feeling heavy. His heart lurches in his chest, slamming against one row of ribs before whipping back to crash into the other. “I take it you know?”

She nods, a hand against his shoulder to steady him. “I know that the two of you were lovers, and that your arrival, rather than giving him delight, has instead caused him distress. Beyond that I know nothing, save that I want to comfort you.” Elrond’s family, it seems, are all of similar habits. He is like a baby chick, drawn up under their wings.

Glorfindel huffs a laugh. “And how do you know that the distress isn’t because of something I’ve done?”

She shrugs. “Erestor carries things strangely, most especially pain. If you were the cause of hurt, however, I believe he trusts Elrond and myself enough that he would have told us to get rid of you. Which, of course, we would have. And the Valar might be unknowable, but I do not think they’d be so cruel as to send someone who had tormented him. Here, I’ll leave you to your shower. There’s a little garden just outside your door, I’ll wait for you there.” With a slight squeeze on his arm, she takes her leave and slips out of the room.

Glorfindel closes the shower door behind him and pulls the lever. Water streams down from a skylight in the ceiling, just like at home.

Home, apparently, is now at the bottom of the ocean. He grits his teeth. At least this way Gondolin will never see a balrog again.

He strips and steps into the warm water, allowing it to work out some of the deep knots in his muscles. Elrond and Celebrían, even Gilmith—they are possessed with a deep, almost invasive compassion. He doesn’t know how much of their kindness will reach him, at least now, but he appreciates it even if it feels like he is being yanked by the bit where they want him to go.

Droplets run down his skin, curling over his shoulders and belly to trickle down his legs. When was the last time he bathed? It feels good to get clean—some of his tired thoughts bed themselves down with the water.

Still, the word Celebrían used earlier tumbles around his head. _Tormented._ It sets Glorfindel’s teeth on edge.

It was only after Glorfindel sent Erestor back to his master’s house that he learned of Maeglin’s treachery. Soldiers from the House of the Mole came streaming up the sides of the wall and instead of offering their aid, began to cut down any in their path. Glorfindel, fighting back-to-back with Ecthelion, stood frozen as a black-helmed guard slew one of Duilin’s soldiers right in front of him. It was only Ecthelion’s quick thinking that saved Glorfindel from the same fate.

Later when he, Ecthelion and Egalmoth pulled back, they got a few spare moments to regroup.

It was Ecthelion who spoke first. _Do you think he knew._ He voice was hard, flat.

Glorfindel stood hunched, his hands clenched at his sides, but when he looked up his gaze held steady. _No. He—_

Egalmoth cut him off with a raised hand. _You do not need to explain yourself. We trust you. But if it is as you say and he did not know, then there is no way he yet lives._

Ecthelion nodded. _Maeglin will have killed him already. We do not know what that snake intended for him—perhaps he was only a placeholder for the old seneschal— but he will have fulfilled whatever purpose Maeglin had for him by now. He is dead._

Glorfindel remembers all the air leaving him in one sharp gasp, remembers his friends surrounding him and holding him up in their strong arms. He remembers despair.

 _‘Findel,_ Egalmoth had taken Glorfindel’s face in his hands, had kissed his brow. _We’re losing people left and right. Don’t let us lose you too._

Ecthelion too had brought him close, had kissed his hair. _We know your heart is breaking. When there is time we will come to you and mourn with you. But now we must fight._

So he fought. He fought with everything left in him and eventually, when that wasn’t enough, he died.

But if Erestor had _lived—_

Did he know, then? About Maeglin’s treachery? Had he conspired with him against the city?

No. The answer is as sure in his heart now as it was then. Erestor knew nothing. But if Maeglin had not killed him, then what had happened? Had he been taken captive as a thrall, or had he found the secret way out and escaped?

A sick feeling twists in his gut, choking the questions short.

He should have looked. He should have searched for Erestor, should have torn down the walls of the House of the Mole until no stone was left unturned, he made a _promise,_ he should have—

And what would have happened then, to the little band of refugees he died to protect? What would have happened if he had driven himself mad with searching?

He tips his head back under the water, letting it run down his hair. He will go mad now if he does not stop thinking about unknowable things. With no little effort he wraps up his questions and puts them away until he can sit down and talk with Erestor. Then he turns the lever off, towels dry, and dresses in the robe Celebrían left for him.

She was right, it is a little long, but not so much that he’ll trip over it. It fits well in the shoulders and when he looks at himself in the mirror he’s a little shocked. He looks more lordly than he’s ever managed to look, even in Gondolin. Ecthelion and Egalmoth would tease him mercilessly if they were here, tell him he’s finally coming into his own. As for himself, there is something odd in dressing in the robes of a dead person, like looking in a warped mirror. But he was dead too, not too long ago. Where does that leave him?

With the ghosts of his friends hovering around him, Glorfindel ties the sash around his waist, chokes down the last of his pastry, and goes outside to meet Celebrían.

She sits on a little bench in a small, well-lit garden. It’s still relatively early in the morning and dew still sparkles on the grass beneath her bare feet. He comes and sits down next to her.

She looks him once over. “It looks good on you.” She says, her voice soft.

Glorfindel remembers Círdan’s face when he told him of the old king’s death. Sauron.

Glorfindel accepts the compliment, silent, and contemplates the elf before him.

Celebrían, in this light, is something spun from starlight. She sits with her hands clasped around her belly, soaking in the sunlight like an unfurled leaf, her silver hair tumbling down her back in waves. She reminds him of someone, but he can’t place the memory.

She catches him looking at her and smiles. “Galadriel’s my mother, in case you were wondering.”

He blinks, surprised. “Oh! Er, congratulations? To her? I suppose?” he blushes, stuttering.

“Oh my dear, much has happened. Galadriel isn’t just a mother now, but a grandmother.” Celebrían gives him a sweet smile and pats his leg. Her gestures are so familiar, like they’ve been good friends for a long time—after so long in the solitude of his soul he doesn’t know how to respond.

“Is this your first child, then?” he asks, reverting to small talk.

“Oh no. This is our third. The previous two were twins, Elladan and Elrohir. I’m sure you’ll see them scampering about sooner or later. Though I dare say this one’s causing me more trouble than the both of them combined!” She looks to her stomach, chuckling.

“Twins!” Glorfindel beams, joy pushing its way up through his troubled heart. “The last I heard of twins were the Ambarussa, and they were the only such pair in all the world. Congratulations, on both them and this new third.”

“Thank you! It runs in the family, I think.” She muses. “Elrond’s one half of a twin pair, though his brother Elros died long ago.”

Glorfindel’s face falls. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Celebrían nudges his shoulder with her own. “It’s all right. I fear you will hear many such things in the coming weeks, joys and sorrows both. Don’t feel bad for stumbling around—we all feel the same way from time to time.”

“Thank you,” he replies. Her simple, frank words do a great deal to comfort and settle him, as does her generous gift.

She rises from the bench, her hands pressing down on the small of her back. “Well! I think we should be off for the official tour! Let me show you around.”

He watches her belly sway with her hips. “… Are you going to be ok?”

“Nonsense! I’ll be fine. Walking helps her settle down. Though here, give me your arm.” She waves him up next to her and takes his elbow.

They walk together down the avenue and he lets his gaze wander. Imladris hums with the sound of elves and water, nestled in among the streams and rivulets that fall down in the crook of the mountain. Celebrían shows him the basics, keeping her voice light yet soft. She doesn’t speak of the past, though she answers the small questions he asks. After a brief explanation of the third kinslaying and Elrond’s presence there, he stops asking questions. After that she takes him by the kitchen gardens and lets him smell and taste the herbs until the darkness of history lifts from his mind.

Glorfindel marvels to himself at this family of wise, beautiful people. Knowing that Erestor is safe under their care gives him a strange, twisted feeling—he is achingly grateful to them, to how they so obviously care for and admire him. And yet—Glorfindel should have been the one to care for him, to protect him. The thought makes him melancholy and pensive.

As they walk Imadris condenses into something more, something solid under her words. There are kitchens and halls, private apartments and rooms. A good amount of elves live here, and peace covers the valley like a thick, warm blanket.

And, through it all, Erestor shows his careful, delicate hand. Celebrían mentions off-hand that he played a large part in Imladris’ design, from the clever shower rooms to the arching bridges spanning the water. Over the whole of the valley flowers and vines trail and thread through, releasing the last of their green leaves into the arms of Autumn. These vines are Erestor’s too, along with the fruit trees and fragrant beds of herbs.

“Terraces,” Celebrían says, and Glorfindel turns to her, startled. “Erestor thought we should terrace the houses down the side of the mountain, to allow the trees to grow better.”

A warmth blooms in his heart—ink through water.

What a strange thing, to finally settle in a place so imbued with Erestor's presence.

Celebrían keeps close to him, placing a hand at his back to turn him or nudging him with her elbow down a different walkway. He feels more and more like a young colt, gently pushed and prodded. He can guess at the purposefulness behind it—he wonders if Elrond asked her specifically to guide him. If so, he is wise indeed— being in Celebrían’s presence is like resting in a fire-lit room, like curling in a fox’s den. He does not yet feel like he has a hold on this world, but he feels he can trust her. She will lead him where he needs to go until he can walk on his own path. It is a only a tenuous peacefulness even so—he is still so very lost—but he holds tight, wrapping that thin comfort around his hands.

There’s a thread of song from over the water, sweet and clear and sad. He wonders who sings it, and why. Birch trees, ever his favorite, spread their pale arms overhead and dust the… city? Village? He asks Celebrían which.

“House, actually. The Last Homely House, as Elrond likes to call it,” she replies.

House. That seems to fit. He’s not a Lord anymore, not really. It sounds nice to be accepted into a House, to have a home offered to you when you have none.

They meander deeper into the heart of Imlaris, skirting around the edge of a large cluster of offices. Glorfindel glances into one of the windows and stops up short, staring.

Erestor sits on the edge of a large desk, his head tipped up. A wide band of threaded scars circle his neck. Smaller, jagged scratches, like red twigs, cut through the scars. Erestor’s hands grip the edge of the desk, knuckles drained purple and white as Elrond stands before him, his long, bird-like hands gently, ever so gently rubbing a palm-full of pale ointment into Erestor’s neck. Erestor trembles, jerking with the movement of Elrond’s hands, his eyes shut tight.

Glorfindel can hear Elrond’s voice, can hear the low things he murmurs to him. _I’m going to move my hands to the back of your neck now. I’m not going to hurt you. Thank you for holding still for me. I’m almost done, it’s almost over._

Glorfindel tears his eyes away, blushing.

Celebrían sees his face, sees the two through the window. “Come with me, Glorfindel,” she murmurs, and leads him away.

He follows, eyes pricking hot. He knows he shouldn’t have seen what he just saw. Erestor would be incensed to know that Glorfindel spied on him, however unintentionally. But he can’t help the way his heart _snarls,_ how he wants to gather Erestor up in his arms and protect him, keep him safe— and he _should_ have, he should have protected Erestor when he needed it most—

“Glorfindel.” Celebrían’s voice brings him back to himself.

Glorfindel wipes his eyes. “Forgive me, my Lady. I am something of a mess.”

She takes his hand and waits for him to continue.

“I—I think I better go back. For now. Thank you, my Lady.” He pulls away, back up toward where he remembers his room to be.

Celebrían keeps his hand, places it on her elbow and walks along with him. “You should really call me Celebrían, Glorfindel,” she says.

He ducks his head. “Celebrían.”

She takes him back up to his room in silence. When they reach the door she turns to him.

“Dinner will be later tonight, and you’re welcome to join us in the main hall. If not, I’ll have Gilmith bring something up for you.” She places a hand on his elbow. “You know where Elrond’s office is if you need anything, and I’ll be wandering around.” She doesn’t say more, sensing, perhaps, that the things he’s feeling can’t, or shouldn’t, be comforted right now.

Glorfindel extricates himself with a bow and a promise to seek her out should he need it before closing the door.

The _click_ of the lock echoes in the empty room. He leans his forehead against the smooth wood of the door and closes his eyes.

The scars circling Erestor’s neck burn bright in his mind. The way he flinched at Elrond’s gentle hands, his hissing breath. Glorfindel clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms until he can feel the soft _pop_ as they break the skin.

He wants, he _needs_ to see Erestor, to run out the door and break down every door until he finds him, has him in his arms again, he needs to kiss his neck until the scars and whatever caused them disappear—and it takes everything he has to listen to Elrond’s wisdom and keep the door shut.

He slumps, unclenching his fists. There are two lines of little half-moon dents in his palms, a few of them smeared with tiny droplets of blood. He licks the cuts clean, wincing at the sting.

Glorfindel wants to go _home._ He wants to walk into his own House with his own people there to greet him, wants to walk back through familiar halls to his own bedroom, curl up under his own sheets in his own bed. He wants to look out his window and see his gardens, see his birch trees in full golden splendor in the lee of the mountain. He wants to wake as he did on that fateful day, with Erestor asleep under his arm, his own very dear love _safe_ in his bed. He wants it _so badly._

He takes a shaking breath. He imagines his friends at his side, Egalmoth and Ecthelion, but they have no words for him. And the ghost, the ghost who lives, Erestor— Erestor won’t speak a word to him, won’t even look at him without running away.

He is so _lonely._ Perhaps Elrond and Gilmith and Celebrían will, as Celebrían said this morning, in time become his friends and companions. But despite their openness, their generosity, he is still so very _alone._

The room gapes open in its silence. Every breath he takes feels like he’s breaking something, ruining something important. The wood under his hands feels wrong, his clothes feel wrong, everything feels _wrong,_ feels wrenched out of socket.

His eyes fall on the satchel at the foot of his bed. Círdan’s gift—the history books.

He sits down on the floor next to it. It sits like a curled snake next to him.

He reaches out, undoes the tie at the top, and lifts out a thick, leather-bound volume.

He is hurting so badly already. Might as well hurt himself some more and get it over with.


	16. Imladris

It is morning when Glorfindel finishes the last volume.

Sometime the previous evening Gilmith dropped off a tray of food for him outside the door, but he hasn’t gotten up to fetch it.

A sliver of sunlight worms its way across the floor. He sits, exhausted, his back against the wooden bedframe. Around him Círdan’s books lie scattered.

He presses the heels of his hands hard against his eyes.

Ecthelion died in such a perfectly _Ecthelion_ way, bull-rushing a _balrog,_ for Eru’s sake. Drowning in a fountain. He would have scoffed at the poetry of it.

Egalmoth made it out, only to fall protecting King Dior’s sons from the servants of Celegorm. Falling to so few— Glorfindel can read between the lines. The Egalmoth he knew would not have gone down so quickly. The Fall must have broken his heart.

Glorfindel feels the soft presence of his friend’s ghosts, imagines them next to him. He wonders how often Egalmoth felt thus, if he sat by the fire or alone in his rooms and wished so hard for his friends that he could almost feel them near. How many years he spent lonely, how often he dreamed of them.

And oh, all the long years since—those thrice-damned Simarils, all the blood spilled under Morgoth’s keen gaze—and _Beleriand,_ Beleriand is _gone,_ sunk beneath the waves. There is no going back.

Glorfindel draws his knees up, curls in on himself. Mandos did not prepare him for this. For existing outside his rightful time, for being alone. The longer he’s here the more it feels like Mandos only scrubbed him clean of the pain of _his_ death, not _everyone else’s_. Everything else, the loss of his homeland, his friends, everything that gave him a sense of who he is and what he is meant to be—all this emptiness remains behind.

He sniffs, pressing his wet face into the crook of his elbow. He wants to go _home._

A knock sounds at the door. He doesn’t feel like answering.

The door opens anyway, and Erestor slips inside.

They stare at each other. Glorfindel can’t breathe.

Erestor closes the door with an echoing _click._ He presses his back to it, slides down until he reaches the floor.

He looks wretched. His hair hangs lank and dull, his eyes cloudy. A few bandages rise over the edge of his high-collared robe. He slumps against the door, his knees drawn up, hands hanging limp.

And yet he looks like a _vision,_ like everything Glorfindel needs—Glorfindel drinks in the sight of him, aching to crawl forward and kiss his feet, beg him for—for _anything,_ for whatever Erestor is willing to give.

Erestor swallows. “I suppose you deserve an explanation,” he says.

Glorfindel waits, his heart pounding in his throat.

The room expands and contracts around them, like breathing, like gasping.

Erestor opens his mouth to speak. “Maeglin originally planned on whoring me out to Salgant, before you came along.”

 _What?_ Surprised, Glorfindel furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

Erestor looks like he’s about to fall apart. “I mean Maeglin didn’t hire me because he thought I was a competent worker, but because I was _pretty_ and—and I had a _reputation._ There were many in the mines who… enjoyed my company. He wanted to give me as a _present_ to his loyal follower, thinking I would just fall in bed with whichever Lord looked my way. In the meantime I was to be a diversion—a pretty young thing he could hide behind while he organized the downfall of the city.” His jaw clenches, his teeth snapping over his words but he doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t drop Glorfindel’s gaze. “I made him look good. And, when he didn’t need to look good anymore, he was going to—well. And then _you_ came along, and I _did_ , I tumbled in bed with the first Lord who asked. And you _fell for it_. And he made sure I distracted you and Egalmoth and Ecthelion while he prepared for the invasion.”

Glorfindel’s breath freezes in his lungs. Erestor just looks at him, silent now that he’s finished his speech. He looks like he’s waiting for something, for… for a sword to fall.

“Did you know?” Glorfindel asks. He hates that he asks, but he has to, he has to know.

“Know what?” Erestor narrows his eyes.

“Did you know that Maeglin was going to betray us? That he was using you?” Glorfindel’s fists clench.

Erestor barks out a laugh, loud and sudden as a slap. “Do you think we would be here if I did? No, we would be far away from here, safe and warm—Egalmoth and Ecthelion still living beside us. Who knows what would have been different had I known? Perhaps we’d still be in Gondolin, celebrating the Gates of Summer closing, the city spangled in flowers. No, I didn’t know, but I should have.” He smiles then, but it is a terrible thing. Like a smile eating a smile, ragged and starving.

A thousand things choke themselves in Glorfindel’s throat but they don’t have a chance to break free before Erestor stands.

And he gets to his feet like—like an old man. He hunches and pulls himself upright, a hand on his heart like it’s going to give out. With a shock Glorfindel realizes that Erestor, once so young, is now _thousands of years_ older than him, has been carrying these things for _thousands of years,_ has been weighed and scarred with everything that happened without respite, without rest.

“Where did you get the scars?” He blurts out, and it is the _wrong_ thing to say.

Erestor looks down at him, eyes gone blank. “You saw those?”

Glorfindel nods.

Erestor’s knuckles turn white where they grip the door handle. “After I returned to the House of the Mole from your House, Maeglin chained me up by the neck in a back storeroom. He was going to come back for me after he had the city, but he never came. No one did. They forgot about me.”

“How did you get out?” Glorfindel can’t help himself from asking.

Erestor, for some unfathomable reason, answers. “About a week later a balrog broke into the storeroom looking for food, but was distracted before it could get to me. In the chaos it broke my chain and I was able to slip out unnoticed. I made my way through the city and found the sign of the wing, just where you said it would be.”

Some small thing inside himself sighs in relief. He escaped, then. Morgoth didn’t claim him as a thrall. But—

Erestor’s eyes light with some fell thing, some ancient pain—and why does he look at Glorfindel like that? Why—

He opens the door, turns to leave.

“Wait!” Glorfindel stumbles up. “Why are you leaving?”

Erestor’s jaw clenches. “I really would rather not wait around until you figure out that you hate me.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, Glorfindel. I am so, so sorry.” Then he’s gone, the door closed shut behind him.

The room creaks, a released breath.

Glorfindel sits very still on the floor. Erestor’s words replay themselves in his mind, gradually making sense.

He rises and follows Erestor out the door.


	17. Imladris

He doesn’t know where Erestor has gone, so he goes to Elrond.

He’s barely a step inside his office when Elrond pins him down with a careful, steady stare. Glorfindel blushes, realizing that he’s still wearing yesterday’s (Gil-galad’s) robes, his eyes red and his hair tangled in clumps.

“Sit down, Glorfindel.” Elrond says, motioning to a chair in front of his desk.

Glorfindel ignores him. “I need to talk with him,” he says.

Elrond gives him a long look, examining him. Glorfindel recoils from under his gaze—has he ever met such an exacting mind? He feels like a mouse under a great owl’s eyes. This small, disheveled elf is _dangerous._

Elrond lets out a breath through his nose and releases Glorfindel, looking away. “His office is in the back of the library, tucked away in the west wing.” Glorfindel has, apparently, been weighed in the balance and found worthy.

Glorfindel bows deep. “Thank you, my Lord.” He turns, but Elrond’s voice stops him short.

“Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel looks back.

Elrond’s eyes are dark. “Erestor needs no one to manage his affairs, least of all myself. I trust, however, that if things go poorly you will come to me to receive a new assignment.”

Glorfindel nods. “Of course.”

Elrond relents. “I wish you well, Glorfindel. Go to him.”

 

Erestor’s office is hidden behind rows and rows of bookshelves, deep in the cavernous library. Only a twisting design carved into the door, a seneschal’s knot, announces that the plain door leads anywhere other than a supply closet.

Glorfindel pauses and ties his hair up with Vairë’s ribbon. He can use any bit of luck and good will he can get ahold of right now. His heart leaps, kicks in his chest and he traces the whirling design with his fingertips.

One breath, then two. In, out.

He knocks.


	18. Imladris

Erestor presses his forehead to the edge of his desk and counts his breaths. In, out. In, out.

He feels scraped, hollow—a shell sucked clean of meat.

At least it’s over. At least he’s been given that small mercy.

There’s a knock at the door and he flinches. Elrond, no doubt, or Celebrían. “Come in.”

A bright, golden head dips inside.

Erestor freezes, jaw clenched tight. _No. Please, no._

“If you ask me to leave,” Glorfindel says, “I’ll leave.”

“Why are you here.” Erestor manages, his voice deserting him. He grips the arms of his chair, waiting for the inevitable blow. He had hoped—but no. He can’t escape this.

Glorfindel stands on the threshold, leaning in. “I’ve come to ask your forgiveness.”

Erestor blinks. “What?”

Glorfindel takes one step, then two. He closes the door behind him. “I’ve come to ask your forgiveness. For leaving you behind.”

Erestor gives a little shake of his head. “Why would you need forgiveness for that? You did what you should have done.” He has never thought otherwise.

Glorfindel dips his head, eyes downcast, and continues anyway. “When we heard of Maeglin’s treachery, Ecthelion and Egalmoth were sure he had already killed you. I shouldn’t have believed them. I should have searched for you. I should have found you, protected you from him.” Slowly, he comes to sit on the edge of Erestor’s desk, next to Erestor’s chair.

Erestor shies away, his chair scraping back. “Nonsense.”

“Forgive me, Erestor.” Glorfindel whispers. “I should have known Maeglin would betray us. I should have known he would hurt you. I promised you that I’d come to you, that I’d find you, and I broke my promise. Forgive me for not knowing, for leaving you behind to die.”

A spark of fire, of annoyance, strikes in Erestor’s eyes. “There’s nothing to forgive. You couldn’t have known.”

Silence grows up between them. Glorfindel watches Erestor’s face with an unnerving tenderness. Erestor turns away.

“What did you mean,” Glorfindel begins, “That you didn’t want to wait around for me to figure out that I hate you?”

Erestor clenches his jaw, a sick twitch in his mouth. “Who wouldn’t, Glorfindel? Who could live through what we lived through and not hate Maeglin’s _pretty pet?_ Who wouldn’t hate me for my failure—least of all you? You who lost _everything_ because I was too blind to see what was right in front of me?” His face crumples. “Please, do me this one mercy and leave me before that happens.” _Please._

He can feel Glorfindel watching as Erestor turns away, as he swallows. Erestor needs Glorfindel to leave, to be gentle with him and _leave,_ but—there’s this voice in his chest _singing,_ oh gods he’s _here—_ and maybe Erestor could stand it, could stand Glorfindel’s inevitable, terrible distain if only he stays close, if he lets Erestor drift in and out of his presence every now and again— Erestor bites the inside of his lip, tastes blood.

Then, very gently, Glorfindel lowers himself to his knees in front of Erestor’s chair. Erestor’s eyes go wide, his limbs weak—“Erestor,” Glorfindel says, and puts his hands on each of the armrests. His eyes are _so blue,_ even in this dim light. “If you will not forgive me for leaving you behind, then I cannot forgive you.”

“Get up, Glorfindel. _Get up—”_ Erestor’s face creases in anguish.

Glorfindel stays on his knees, but he pulls his hands back from the armrests and lays them in his lap. The voice in Erestor’s chest pleads _no, no come back—_ “Do you trust me, Erestor?” Glorfindel says, and his voice crawls up into Erestor’s chest and nestles there like some living thing, something warm and bright and real. “You told me once that you trust me. If you still do, if my word still means something to you—even though I have no right to claim that, none at all— then know this. No one could have known what Maeglin intended, no one. Not you, not me, not his family, no one. He _used_ you, Erestor. He used _all of us._ He was cruel to you, to me—and I don’t blame you for his evils. Erestor,” Glorfindel reaches up, dares to let his fingertips brush Erestor’s. “I was there. I know what happened. Will you trust me when I say I don’t hate you? That there will never come a day when I wake up and change my mind—”

“ _Stop._ ” Erestor groans, his hands jerking away to cover his face. _It’s not true, it can’t be true—_ “Don’t _say_ things like that.”

Glorfindel sits back on his heels. His fingers inch away, but only just. “Erestor.” He says again, his voice low. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. Elrond will send me away, tomorrow if you wish it. You—” his voice breaks. “You need not see me again. But if you don’t—I—”

Erestor’s hands fall from his face. He is deathly still.

Glorfindel sits at his feet. “My heart hasn’t changed, love.”

All the breath punches out of him. Glorfindel waits.

Erestor opens his mouth to speak, the tang of copper-blood still on his tongue. “I saw you die, Glorfindel,” he says, and his voice is like a stone dropped into a cold, deep well. “I came out of Idril’s tunnel to find you and the others not two hours ahead of me, high up on the mountain pass. When you—” he stutters, long-held words pouring out of him like water. “When the balrog tore you from the path you fell right past where I stood on the cliff. I could see your crumpled armor, could hear the crunch of your body hitting the earth, I could smell your hair burning—” huge tears well up in his eyes and break down his face. His bones tremble. “And I ran down the mountain but it was too late, too late—you were _dead_ in my arms, and _now—_ now you come back to haunt me, to— and what will you do with me, Glorfindel? _Have mercy_ on me, my heart cannot take this.”

Glorfindel leans forward, takes Erestor’s hands. He is so, so warm. “I will _love_ you, if you will allow it. I am here, and even though I am far too late— if you want me, you can have me.”

Something in the air crackles, _snaps—_

And Erestor reaches out with one trembling hand, releases Glorfindel’s hair from its ribbon, and digs his fingers in deep, tight. Glorfindel sighs and leans into it, nuzzling the tender skin on the inside of Erestor’s arm.

And Erestor jerks forward, haltingly slow, and eases himself off the chair into Glorfindel’s lap. Glorfindel wraps him in his arms— _finally, oh gods I’m not dreaming—_ gentle and careful. He sits there and lets Glorfindel hold him, silent until—

One vicious shudder works itself through Erestor’s body and he _moans—_ an old, miserable sound—breaking down and sobbing over Glorfindel’s shoulder. Glorfindel clutches him close and buries his face in Erestor’s shoulder, shivering.

Their breath mingles between the two of them, wet and shaking and for the first time since he left Glorfindel all those many years ago Erestor feels _warm_.

Glorfindel’s mouth finds his, soft and sweet. Erestor can taste the salt of his tears, can feel the tension draining from Glorfindel’s shoulders under his hands. This is _real,_ isn’t it? And, and— and Glorfindel isn’t shouting at him, commanding him to leave, isn’t snarling at him in anger, no— Glorfindel’s hands are soft on Erestor’s back, his hips, Glorfindel’s mouth is open on his and Erestor can _taste_ him, can smell mint and thyme in his hair, can hear his soft sigh when Erestor curls his hands in that golden hair—

“Erestor, _darling,”_ Glorfindel murmurs, a little dazed. His lips brush across Erestor’s face, kissing his cheek, his eyes, drifting down to his jaw, his _neck—_ “I _missed_ you, my beautiful love, you—”

_no no no no no no NO—_

“ _No!_ ” Erestor jerks and _yanks_ Glorfindel back by his hair, _don’t, no—_

Glorfindel’s eyes are wide, the fear in his face sharp, panic rising. “Erestor?” he says and he sounds so _small._

Erestor trembles. “I’m sorry, I—” he gulps. “Don’t—don’t touch my n-neck. D-don’t call me b-beautiful. Don’t c-call me _pretty._ ”

“Ok,” Glorfindel draws him back up, caressing down his back, his thighs. “I won’t.”

Tears run down his face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry—I just—”

“It’s ok, it’s ok love.” Glorfindel cups his face in those tender hands and kisses his forehead. “It’s ok. I won’t hurt you.”

Erestor calms, the tremors receding. Glorfindel threads his fingers through his hair, untangling the day-old knots. Erestor takes deep breaths of the smell of Glorfindel’s robes—a little musty and old but also a little like cinnamon. Erestor presses his hand against his ribs, like he has a wound in his side—all the fears and suspicions and hurts of a thousand years and more leaking out of him to spill along the floor. It feels good—or, at least, he feels better than he did before. His neck jerks and then— release. His throat relaxes from its stranglehold.

“Glorfindel,” he murmurs, presses his nose up under the curve of Glorfindel’s jaw. “I missed you too, beloved.”

Glorfindel kisses him _hard_ for that, both hands cradling his face. “ _Erestor—”_ He whispers, breathless. “Get me out of this ridiculous office and take me somewhere warm, love. I want to feel close to you.”

Erestor smiles, cracked. “You are close, you ridiculous thing.” But he rises anyway, standing on shaking knees and pulling Glorfindel up with him. Glorfindel sways, pressing the long length of himself along Erestor’s side. Erestor sighs and allows it, _loves_ it, cautious joy sparking over all his jagged edges. “Come here, beloved,” he says and Glorfindel does, he comes _close_ and isn’t that a miracle beyond imagining— Glorfindel nuzzling along his cheek, touching him again.

He leads Glorfindel out of his small, dim office and down through the library, taking a sharp turn once they’re out in the open air.

Glorfindel’s hand is like living starlight in his and Erestor holds tight, pulling him along.

“Where are we going?” Glorfindel asks, trotting up beside him.

Erestor gives him a shy smile. “My room.”

Glorfindel purrs in return, low and dark and lovely in Erestor’s ear. He only barely manages to keep his hands (mostly) to himself before they get to Erestor’s room, but once that door closes he crowds up again, pushing Erestor up against the door.

Erestor slings his arms around Glorfindel’s neck and smiles so hard it _hurts,_ looking up and meeting those infinitely blue eyes. Glorfindel’s mouth crinkles at the edges when he smiles, when he leans close to kiss Erestor’s forehead. Slowly, his hands find Erestor’s waist, pluck at his sash.

They undress each other down to their thin inner shifts and leave their outer robes in a heap on the floor before turning away to Erestor’s bed. He doesn’t push things further and neither does Glorfindel. In truth, he doesn’t know if he can handle anything beyond cuddling right now—and Glorfindel’s not looking much better. Rings hang under his eyes, and Erestor doesn’t think he’s changed clothes since yesterday. Erestor remembers the books scattered around Glorfindel’s floor and runs his hand along Glorfindel’s spine, soothing.

They curl up under the thick, downy quilt. Glorfindel folds himself up along Erestor’s side.

“I’m exhausted,” he mumbles.

Erestor slumps back. “Me too,” he replies. His curtains are closed but outside the sun is just reaching mid-day. They sink into the warm darkness.

He sighs and sags back, all the starch in his body used up on the walk from the library to here. The bandages at his neck stick and pull at his skin. Glorfindel’s fingertips search along his ribs, pondering the lack of muscle there. He doesn’t say anything, but Erestor knows what he’s thinking.

There is so much here, crowded in this room with them. Long years and angry ghosts and the crumbling ruins of a once-great city. Erestor works out the tangles in Glorfindel’s hair as they lie there, breathing slow. He wants to rest, to let sleep siphon away some of the ache he’s feeling, but he wonders if dreams can feel like this, can feel as real as waking. He wonders if he closes his eyes for too long Glorfindel will evaporate like mist. His hand tightens.

Glorfindel hisses, arcs up against Erestor’s hand. “Erestor?”

Erestor releases him.

Glorfindel nuzzles close, a question in his eyes.

“Just— be here when I wake up,” Erestor murmurs. “Don’t let me wake up alone.”

Glorfindel nods, pulls Erestor up flush against him.

That great golden heart beats slow under Erestor’s hands, his pulse soft under the skin of his neck.

He is real. He is here. He is not going to leave. Erestor closes his eyes and lets himself believe that those things are true. With the last of his strength he relents, beds his fears and puts himself—his whole self—in Glorfindel’s hands.

They twine around each other like vines, Glorfindel’s arms slung around his waist and Erestor’s hands thick in that golden hair.

Then, like the turning of the tide, they drift to sleep.


	19. Imladris

Glorfindel wakes a few hours later, Erestor drooling on the front of his shift. His mouth feels cotton thick and his eyes feel filled with sand and all over he feels achy and sore and he is _overcome_ with joy.

He wiggles out from under Erestor’s arms and stretches, watching with interest how Erestor curls closer, his hands fisting in Glorfindel’s shift. He’d been restless in his sleep and now his hair is showing it, tangled like a bird’s nest around his head. It’s the best thing Glorfindel’s seen in—years? Time is fuzzy for him, but not even Lórien’s glistening splendor can compare with a sleeping Erestor at his side.

There’s a thin line of sunlight cutting through the curtains, low and golden. Late afternoon, then. He smacks his lips, feeling grimy and crusty and in desperate need of a wash.

Hmm. A shower. That sounds promising.

He rolls to Erestor, kisses along his shoulder. “Wake up, darling.”

Erestor wakes in fits and starts, groaning and curling inward before opening one bleary eye. There’s a flash of unbelief, then a slow-dawning smile. He’s so soft like this, unguarded and sweet. Glorfindel leans down to kiss him.

Erestor pulls back, grimacing. “When was the last time you washed your mouth out?”

Glorfindel snorts. Sweet indeed. “Doesn’t matter. Where’s your shower room?”

Erestor perks up at that, catching the way Glorfindel’s reaching for his shift, sneaking underneath. “Over here,” he replies, swinging out of bed and walking to a door tucked in the corner. His shift slips down over his shoulder and he tucks his hair back, revealing an irresistible swath of creamy pale skin. Glorfindel follows, catching him up around his waist and drawing him back to nip at his bare shoulder. Erestor only grumbles a little, arching up into Glorfindel’s chest. He’s fully awake now, if Glorfindel looks over his shoulder he can see Erestor’s cock pressing up, tenting his shift.

“So sensitive,” Glorfindel murmurs, licking at the love bite.

Erestor hums low, pensive. “I haven’t taken anyone to bed since you,” he says, huffing a small self-deprecating laugh.

Glorfindel stills. “Really?”

Erestor nods. He pulls Glorfindel’s hands up, clasps them tight around his chest. “It seemed pathetic, somehow. Being with someone when I could only think about you.”

Glorfindel dips his head, squeezing tight. The years they spent apart rise up. He begins to feel just how long it’s been, time stacking up on his shoulders.

Erestor continues, his sable voice rough. “I understand what you meant, back then. About not knowing how to live when… when something like that happened. And, like you, by the time I came out of the nightmares and the grief, I had found people to comfort me.”

“Elrond?” Glorfindel asks.

Erestor nods. Now, in the comfort and peace of Glorfindel's arms, Erestor's voice grows soft as the downy blackness of night. Calm and deep, and cut with something Glorfindel can't recognize. Age, maybe. Wisdom. “And Celebrían, later." He continues. "Gil-galad too, and though he and I were never very close he understood me, and that mattered. And now there are the twins, and even though they’re terrors, the both of them, I think they are fond of me.”

Glorfindel sighs. “I’m glad.” He kisses the tip of Erestor’s ear. He is glad, surprisingly so—he never wanted Erestor to be lonely, even though he envies the time Elrond and the others have had with him when Glorfindel was not there. There's time, now, to make up for that. “Here, let me help you.” And he grasps the hem of Erestor’s shift and slides it up over his body.

Erestor goes soft and pliant, lets Glorfindel strip him before turning into the little shower room. Glorfindel yanks his own shift over his head, tosses it away and follows _(always follows, forever follows)_ that lithe, beautiful form.

Erestor pulls a lever and the water cascades down. Glorfindel closes the door behind him and watches as Erestor tests the water, then steps in. Erestor closes his eyes and tips his head up, water sluicing down his skin. Glorfindel bites his lip—Erestor looks like a god like this, like a water Maia with the water shimmering around him. He’s thin now, too thin, but even so he is still so very beautiful. His long, silken hair clings to him like thick, dark ink, spilling down those long swaths of creamy skin. He’s blushing, a springtime pink spreading across his cheeks and down his chest, that plush mouth bitten red already. Glorfindel remembers his first instinct at being alone with him—to kneel, to bow in the face of such beauty. _Lovely, perfect—you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—_ he remembers Egalmoth’s pointed look that night, so long ago, and Glorfindel knew then he was no longer going to be the “pretty one” in their little group.

And Erestor was, he was pretty then, but now Glorfindel shies away from the word. Not only for how Erestor feels about it, but also because somehow, it doesn’t fit anymore. Erestor grew up while Glorfindel lay across the sea, grew old. He’s not pretty anymore. There are fine lines around his eyes and his mouth, a lean cut to his jaw that wasn’t there before. The bandage around his neck brings into stark relief the other scars on his body, most noticeably a long, pocked white scrape-mark along one flank. He grew, he changed. Glorfindel’s changed too—death will do that to you— but somehow, even so far apart over space and time, they kept room in their changes for each other. Growing in tandem, leaning together despite everything in between.

Destiny. Fate. A miracle. Whatever it was, Glorfindel can’t express his gratefulness enough. After everything he lost—Erestor, here.

Glorfindel finds he has to look away, his heart grown too large for his chest. He looks to the walls, examines this little room.

This shower room is a little larger than the one in his guest room, and far more intricate. There are three different levers on the wall, along with an array of soaps tucked into a stone shelf. The walls are carved with—with _flowers,_ with lavender and foxglove and snapdragons and tiny, delicate daisies. Glorfindel stops up short and stares. Flowers, everywhere—and tangled up in them, limned in gold, are little five-petal poppies.

Erestor catches Glorfindel’s awed stare. “They’re not for you,” he says, then blushes. “Not all of them, anyway.”

Glorfindel gapes at him. “You love me.”

Erestor narrows his eyes. “I’ve always loved you, you fool. Did you not hear a word I said?”

Glorfindel catches Erestor up in his arms and kisses him, just _holds_ him and devours the tiny surprised groan from Erestor’s mouth.

He comes up for air, gasping, taking in Erestor’s dazed look and blushing cheeks. “You never said it, before,” He murmurs. “We didn’t have time, not really.”

Erestor chuckles, dazed. “You foolish creature.”

Glorfindel kisses him again, laps up into his mouth. “Tell me again, love.”

Erestor huffs, hides his face in the crook of Glorfindel’s neck. “I love you, Glorfindel.”

And Glorfindel can’t stop smiling, not when Erestor tries to kiss the grin off his face, not when Erestor shoves him hard against the wall and takes Glorfindel’s cock in his tight hand—he can’t stop.

Erestor nips at his throat and Glorfindel throws his head back, let him worry a bruise into his skin, “What will they— _oh—_ they think, Erestor, when the second day after I’ve arrived I show up with a myriad of bruises on my neck?”

Erestor chuckles, licks up his ear. “They’ll think you’ve spent a very long time in Mandos and were in need of a good fuck.”

And Glorfindel _laughs_ , is still laughing when Erestor kisses him—

They wind up on the floor of the shower, Erestor straddling his waist and arching above him like a sunbeam, water beading on their bodies like pearls. They take things slow, easy, content to map out the shape of each other’s bodies under the warm steam. Glorfindel runs his mouth over Erestor’s collarbone, his breast—he can feel that faithful heart beating under his lips. And is there any end to this—this discovery? New curves and secret ways open up under Glorfindel’s fingertips, Erestor unfolding for him like a map home.

Erestor inches down slowly on Glorfindel’s slicked fingers—his hands tighten on Glorfindel’s hips and his cock, already leaking, brushes up against Glorfindel’s belly. Glorfindel’s own cock jumps in response, precome smearing silky soft in the dip of his stomach and Erestor grinds down, bringing them together. Glorfindel _moans,_ jerks, his hips stuttering up into the searing touch, a bolt of electricity striking hot up his spine. _Oh, gods, yes—_ Erestor wraps a hand around the base of Glorfindel’s cock, a wicked smirk playing around his lips, _not yet, I want you to come inside me—_

And Glorfindel thinks he could come just from this, just from watching Erestor grind his hips down, his mouth parted in pleasure and his brow furrowed in concentration— and then Erestor takes him in hand and presses down, rolls his hips to take him in— Glorfindel surges up to capture his mouth, to taste the whimper on his tongue—

They don’t last long—Erestor breaks with a gasp and spills over Glorfindel’s belly, his hands clenching and fluttering around Glorfindel’s shoulders. Glorfindel follows a few seconds later, teeth tight on Erestor’s shoulder, _Erestor, love, oh—_

They sink down to the stone floor, panting hard. Glorfindel pulls out with a groan, the floor suddenly very cold and very hard beneath him. Erestor seems to agree and splays out on Glorfindel’s chest, purring.

“Gerroff mme,” He manages, pleasure slurring his words.

“No.” Comes the reply.

Glorfindel doesn’t have the will to fight, not when Erestor sighs like that and snuggles down on his chest, hands thoughtful and soft at his waist. He hums and wraps his arms around Erestor’s shoulders. He could stay like this forever, water splashing in his eyes and his legs falling asleep, if Erestor asked.

Erestor doesn’t ask. Instead he rises, lifts Glorfindel up next to him, and turns the lever off. The water trickles to a stop and Erestor dries him off with a clean, soft towel before bundling him back to bed.

Glorfindel sighs, Erestor cleaving close to his side.

And then, with a low, soft voice, Erestor begins to tell him about flowers.

The flowers the eagle gave him, her gift for his mourning. The flowers he planted in the sandy soil over Egalmoth’s grave after he buried him, too late to stop the massacre. The flowers he found growing in Ecthelion’s bones when he went back, so many years later, wanting to see the ruined city one last time before it sank beneath the waves. The flowers Elrond wore in his hair when they met, which he wore every day until Gil-galad died. The flowers Gil-galad himself gave Erestor every Anniversary, slipping into his room to leave them on his bedside table in the morning. The flowers Erestor planted outside his window here in Imladris, golden and bright.

Glorfindel feels something huge and painful pressing on his heart. With every word it digs in deeper, spreads its shining roots in his veins—and when Erestor finally goes silent Glorfindel presses his face in Erestor’s hair and weeps.


	20. Imladris

Later Glorfindel sits between Erestor’s knees with his head against Erestor’s chest and lets him comb out his hair. Gil-galad’s old robe, still the only respectable article of clothing Glorfindel owns, hangs over the back of a chair, the wrinkles working themselves out in the last of the steam from the shower. The golden light of evening is fading away and, in the distance, a bell rings.

Erestor glances up to the door. “That’ll be dinner. Do you want to go?”

Glorfindel’s stomach answers for him with a rumble. “I don’t think I’ve eaten since yesterday morning.”

Erestor tugs his hair. “Why would you do that?”

Glorfindel leans against Erestor’s knee. Yesterday was a bad day. “I was worried. I thought you didn’t love me.”

Erestor twists off a last braid. “No,” he says, his voice soft. His hands still, then slowly dig into his hair. “Never.”

Glorfindel leans back into it, humming.

“Come now, love,” Erestor says, and pushes himself up to stand. “Let’s get you fed.”

Glorfindel rises next to him, threading their fingers together. “We should probably check in with Elrond beforehand. I talked with him before I came to you and I think he’ll want an update.”

“Is that how you found my office?” Erestor muses, chuckling. “Yes we should, I imagine he is a little worried. Here, get dressed.” He tosses Glorfindel’s robe at him and turns away to dress himself.

Glorfindel takes the robe off the chair, dresses, pats his hair down in the mirror, and turns to watch Erestor tying a sash around a deep plum robe.

Erestor catches him staring. “I seem to recall you like purple,” he says, giving him a small smile. “Also we should probably swing by your guest room after dinner to get your things.”

“Hmm? Why?” Glorfindel asks.

Erestor blinks at him. “To bring them here, of course. Unless you want your own room?”

And just like that, Glorfindel has a home again. “No,” he says, and walks over to where Erestor’s buttoning the last button around his throat. Erestor comes into his arms easy and soft— it’s becoming a habit to just lean into Glorfindel’s chest whenever he’s close enough to touch. Glorfindel presses a kiss to his brow. “I love you,” he whispers.

Erestor smiles, leans into the kiss.

Then they walk down to dinner together, hands twined.


	21. Epilogue: Imladris

Elrond’s, well, not exactly surprised to see them. This time of year, with the snowmelt finally gone, is prime time for young lovers to get themselves caught frolicking in the river—but Elrond didn’t expect the two of the oldest and wisest elves in Imladris to go about acting like they were a mere 50 years old. Well, he didn’t expect it from Erestor. Glorfindel, definitely.

Elrond had come down here to show little Arwen, now almost three years old, the dells and miniature waterfalls. Today is the kind of high, cloudless blue day that begs exploration, adventure, and Arwen, with her persuasive grey eyes, definitely agrees. So Elrond had taken the day off and together they had wandered down here, admiring all the ladybugs and grasshoppers before accidentally stumbling on his two Councilors swimming mostly naked in a secluded pool. They apparently haven’t spotted him, nor Arwen, who sits curled up in his arms, her pudgy hand reaching for a reed.

“What are they doing, Ada?” She whispers, her voice almost as quiet as a dragonfly’s wing.

Elrond glances over at the pair. “They’re—”

And he stops up short.

Glorfindel’s got his arms around Erestor’s waist, his face buried in the crook of Erestor’s _neck_. Elrond can see him kissing those scars, a pink tongue darting out to playfully lick up the line of his throat. Erestor has his head thrown back, his hands buried in Glorfindel’s hair, and he has this— this _blinding-bright_ smile stretching across his face. Elrond can hear him laugh, hear him gasp as Glorfindel pushes him against the rock, sharp teeth nipping bruises in that scarred neck. 

Well. Would you look at that.

“They’re loving each other,” he says, turning away to give them privacy.

Arwen scrunches up her face. “Gross.”

Elrond chuckles and pushes forward into the reeds, flicking an errant spider off Arwen's shoulder. “Well, I don’t know about that. You might find you might like that sort of thing someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!   
> I'd appreciate a [reblog](http://peasantswhy.tumblr.com/post/169065640061/show-chapter-archive)! thanks y'all for reading. :)


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